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A Political Act

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King Diocletian

King Diocletian

Magistrate
I will get back to State of Emergency, but this is a sort of palate-cleanser inspired by the thread on judicial punishments.



“She said what?”

The bishop was furious, his face beetroot and the wart at the end of his nose seeming almost to glow.

Sir Thomas took a deep breath. “She said, your grace, that indulgences were an abomination lacking scriptural precedent foisted upon defenceless people by a church that was institutionally corrupt.”

“Abomination? Institutionally corrupt?” He wondered if a wart could burst with anger.

“She also said that the system of tithes was punitive and arbitrarily applied and called for a thorough review of the system of taxation.”

“She’s mad. And she must be stopped. What, Thomas, are we going to do?”

Sir Thomas didn’t know what they were going to do. Nobody knew what they were going to do. The situation was unprecedented. Lady Isabel was 22, beautiful and intelligent. People loved her. She spoke to them and heard their concerns. She sympathised and, if she felt strongly enough, she articulated their problems. She’d spoken out against excessive taxation to fund wars in France. She’d queried whether town money really should be spent on renovating the merchants’ guild-hall. She wasn’t naïve; she didn’t take up every cause; but when she did she spoke clearly, simply and powerfully. She was popular and she was dangerous. And now she’d turned on the church.

*

Isabel drove her horse hard, relishing the wind on her face as her soft brown hair flowed behind her. She needed this. She needed the release. Should she have said that at the public meeting? Probably not, but it was true. This was how it always happened. She listened having vowed she’d say nothing and then she got annoyed with the flabby arguments of others and spoke up. Really she was just trying to clarify things, to move the debate along, but she would always end up making her feelings clear and suddenly there’d be a movement behind her, people urging her to lead protests and organise opposition.


And now of course the people would come to her with petitions. It was tiring but she knew it was work she had to do. She was lucky: she as high-born and this was something she could do to help others. And it was necessary now. Her father, she knew, would have stood up for the people – he had stood up for the people – but now he was ill and weak and confined to bed and her stepmother seemed concerned only with lavish banquets and fine clothing and jewellery.


They’d never got on, but eight years after her mother’s death, five years after her father had remarried, she’d got used to her, accepted she would always be there, always be demanding more. The issue was more pressing now, of course, with her father so sick. That was why the taxes had become an issue, why she’d spoken out against a new levy that, she knew, was largely going to pay off debts accrued by her stepmother’s extravagant lifestyle.


Isabel came to the forest and slowed to a trot. It was cool under the branches and frost still lay in shaded patches. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself. This church business was absurd. She was fortunate, of course; she could read the Latin, something she wasn’t sure Father William was capable of. This business of buying pardons seemed monstrous to her – there was nothing about that in the Bible. And the way they enforced the tithes, even when harvests were poor, as they had been last year, well, that seemed to her a betrayal of what Christianity was about. Wasn’t it about helping people, about protecting the needy, rather than about squeezing everybody to make sure the bishop could keep himself in fine wines from France?


She knew the church wouldn’t be happy but, really, it was dreadful the way William allowed the bishop to bully him. It was dreadful the way they used people’s terror of hell and the afterlife to fleece them in this one. The trees opened out and she looked down the valley, at the dark lake in the distance. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling the damp of sweat on her brow. She just wished she didn’t always have to be the one protecting the people, but she supposed with the advantages she’d had and her education it was her duty to do so. She came out into a meadow again and kicked hard back towards home.

*

Maude sat by the bed of her husband, watching the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. She had known, of course, that this was always likely when she married him, 18 years her senior; in fact, that had always been part of the plan. But the crisis was coming. He was dying, had only a few weeks left, and she needed to ensure that when he went she stayed on. She deserved it, after all: five years of enduring his impotent fumblings. But soon he would be gone and, after an appropriate time, she could marry Lord John with whom she’d been conducting a discreet affair since before she’d even married. Only one thing stood in her way: Isabel.


How she hated her. She was pretty and clever and popular, her slenderness a constant rebuke to how she’d allowed herself to put on a little weight. And worse than that, she would speak out about what she saw injustices. Maude thought of Isabel standing in the great hall, arguing passionately that the increased taxes were unjustifiable, failing to recognise that the money was necessary to maintain the prestige of her father’s house. She had to find a way of destroying her.
 
Father William was short, fat and bald and wanted nothing more than an easy life. He didn’t know why Lady Isabel was making such a fuss and he didn’t really understand half of what she said. He didn’t want to get involved. But the bishop was upset and Sir Thomas was quite clear on what he had to do. And so he’d made the appointment and turned up for an audience with the Lady Maude. He found her a frightening woman, if he was honest. He remembered when she’d married Lord Edward, how he’d thought her a handsome woman, but five years had not been kind and there was a harshness to her now while her waist had thickened.


He’d anticipated an awkward conversation; how after all, did you tell a noble that her stepdaughter might be a heretic? How did you broach the fact that the church was investigating the issue? But she’d actually been remarkably accommodating, said she understood entirely and promised full cooperation. She would make sure she didn’t flee, she said, would even make a statement if that was required. The bishop, William knew, would be delighted; and personally, this was a real feather in his cap.


*

Isabel read the letter again. It was short and to the point. She was required to report to the bishop’s offices at 9am on Friday to discuss “her controversial views on indulgences”. She was angry at being summoned like that but there was equally something a little unnerving about it. She knew what the church was capable of with those who stood up to it but that was surely something that happened in London or Canterbury, not out here, not in Mallamshire.


So, a little after 8.30, she saddled her horse and rode across fields just dusted with snow to the cathedral. Normally she would have enjoyed the morning. It was crisp and bright, the fresh smell of winter on the air. But today she was anxious. What did the bishop want? Did he want her to shut up? She wasn’t sure she was prepared to do that but equally with her father so ill the last thing she wanted was to distress him. She arrived just before nine, her horse steaming in the cold air. She secured his bridle to the rail, loosened her hair and straightened it, adjusted her cloak, and knocked.

*<p>

It was the first time the bishop had really looked at her. He knew men spoke of her beauty but she really was a remarkable looking woman, her height and slenderness emphasised by the britches she wore, tucked into her riding boots. There was an intelligence to her dark eyes while her face had a rare combination of delicacy and strength, all framed by the silkiest brown hair. This, then, was his enemy.


She sat quietly on the low chair before the dais, looking up at the bishop. He felt those dark eyes piercing him, a pain in his heart at the beauty he knew could never be his. He looked to his right at the abbot, a bald, grey-faced man, and to his left the deacon, younger, red-faced, eager. What did they see in her? He wondered how long it was since the abbot had even seen a woman, let alone one as attractive as this. And the deacon? He was an expert in church law but he had no need for celibacy; did he go chasing women?


“Right,” he said. “Shall we begin?”


She stared at him. “By all means, my lord.”


“Now, we’ve had reports that you have condemned the selling of indulgences. I’m sure we can clarify this swiftly and that it’s all been a misunderstanding but, well, did you say that?”


“I did, my lord.” Her voice was calm, authoritative.
 
The deacon was baffled. What was she doing? This was insanity on her part. The bishop, he knew was furious. She must have realised that. Antagonising him like this could only bring trouble. That probably meant hassle for him but, frankly, he could see this might become interesting. Who knew what might happen if she kept riling the bishop? And she was very beautiful. He didn’t know whether riding britches were appropriate for being questioned by the church, but he knew he liked looking at her in them.


The bishop kept asking her what she meant and she kept explaining. She was very good, the deacon thought. She held his gaze, was firm and polite. She asked questions, sought references. What, she kept asking, was the justification for indulgences? Was the practice mentioned in the Bible? The deacon suspected the bishop didn’t know but he replied that not all answers were to be found in the Bible. She had a problem with that, she said, for if the Bible weren’t a guide, who was to decide what was. The bishop insisted the Church was there to intercede and that was when she went too far.


But what, she asked, if the Church were wrong? Weren’t humans fallible? Couldn’t they be led astray? Maybe this was all a dreadful error – after all, indulgences did seem to make things easier for the rich, when Christ has very much seemed to be on the side of the poor. The bishop’s face had turned puce and he had pointed out, blusteringly, that she was rich. And she, of course, had replied that it was precisely the advantages she seemed to have that made her uncomfortable.


They talked for about an hour before the bishop dismissed her.


“Was this a trial?” she asked as she stood.


“It was a commission,” he said. “We will discuss our options and then you’ll hear from us. Please don’t leave the county.”

*

“It’s blasphemy!” the bishop shouted. “Maybe heresy. She’s dangerous. She’s gone too far. She’s a blasphemer!”


The abbot took a sip of wine. “She is expressing doubt,” he said. “That is permissible."


“She called the church institutionally corrupt! She said indulgences were an abomination!” The bishop could feel one of his headaches coming on. He gulped what was left in his goblet and refilled it.


“Maybe it is,” the abbot said mildly. “Maybe they are. She’s right about it not being in the scripture. She’s right that indulgences are a doctrine that benefits the rich.”


“You as well!” the bishop roared. “Who are we to question Canterbury or Rome?”


“Christians making our way,” said the abbot. The bishop could have punched him, with his benign face and his stupid beard. Didn’t he see how dangerous this was?


The deacon coughed, meaningfully. “If I may...” he said.<p>


The bishop looked at him in irritation. He was young and too clever by half. “What?” he snapped.


“The point surely is that while we may all have doubts, it is best to raise them privately, to discuss them with a priest or perhaps even my lord,” the deacon said. “To announce them in public, to rabble-rouse, is potentially hugely damaging. And not only to the church, but to the souls of the very people she claims to be representing.”


The bishop nodded. He was a bright boy – useful, if annoying.


The abbot raised his eyebrows. “There is something in that,” he acknowledged. “What do you propose to do about it?”


And that really was the question. The bishop didn’t know. He knew she had to be stopped but he didn’t know how.


The deacon cleared his throat again. “Yes?” the bishop asked.


“She has blasphemed,” he said. “If she were a commoner our course of action would be very simple.”


“We can’t flog her,” the bishop snapped, although a wonderful image of her cowering bare-backed before the post presented itself to him.


“Perhaps not. But we could suggest to Lady Maude that her stepdaughter is a blasphemer and see what she suggests. I understand from Father William that she raised no complaints to this commission. It may be that her political interests and the way of God run happily in parallel in this matter.”
 
Isabel rode her horse hard across the frosted fields. She hated them, all three of them with their self-satisfaction. She hated the abbot with his vague sense of being better than those outside the abbey. She hated the red-faced bishop with his anger and his venality. And she hated the deacon, who she knew had been staring at her with lust. But really what could they do? The church was decrepit, increasingly impotent. People were starting to see through them, the mystery was being exposed. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God; it was the church she objected to.


And what had that been? Had that been a trial? A warning? Well, maybe she would tread a little more carefully, but she wasn’t going to let them keep exploiting the poor. And she knew the people, for the most part, were on her side.

*

Sir Thomas stood anxiously before Lady Maude. The bishop and deacon stood behind him with Father William some way further back. She sat back in her chair, lips pursed. “Forget for a moment she’s a noblewoman,” Maude said. “What crime do you think she’s guilty of?”


“We have considered this most carefully, your ladyship, and it seems to us she has blasphemed.”


Maude nodded. “And for blasphemy, what would be the usual punishment?”


“The recommended penalty, I believe, is a dozen strokes of the birch and an hour in the stocks for each count, your ladyship.”


“Thank you. I will consider how best to act in this matter.”

*

Lady Maude smoothed down her dress, irritated at the way it had rucked around her increasingly round belly. She looked at Isabel, demurely clad in a pale blue dress, her hair hanging loose, and she looked at Sir Thomas and the bishop who stood anxiously before the fire.


“Isabel,” she said. “The bishop came to me yesterday with disturbing news.”


“My lady?” Was there a slight nervousness in her tone? She was usually such a cocksure girl. Well, this would shatter her poise. She couldn’t quite believe such an opportunity had been presented to her.


“It seems you have been found guilty of two counts of blasphemy.”


Isabel’s eyes widened and she glanced at the bishop. “When was I tried?” she asked.


“Your evidence was heard and your case discussed by a church council,” the bishop said, a slight leer on his face.


Maude cleared her throat. “I have been asked to ratify sentence, which I have done. You will be taken before the cathedral next market-day and birched with two dozen strokes-”


“You’re going to have me flogged-?” Isabel said, her voice hoarse with disbelief.


“And,” Maude said, cutting across her, “you will spend two hours in the stocks.”


For several moments Isabel couldn’t speak. She seemed almost to be choking. “How dare you?” she spluttered finally. “How dare you? What have I done?”


“A church court found you guilty of blasphemy, Isabel,” Maude said, barely able to keep the smile from her face. “The punishment is clearly laid out. And you of all people must know that we are all equal before God; if a peasant is flogged for blasphemy so must we nobles be.” She turned towards the fire. “Sir Thomas, could you explain the practicalities to Lady Isabel?”


He drew himself to his full height, self-important fool that he was. “You will present yourself at the cathedral at dawn on market day,” he said. “You will prepare there for your punishment. I suggest you wear something simple that can be easily removed.”


Maude was surprised how good this felt. Isabel, for once, seemed dumbstruck. She stood, hands clasped awkwardly before her, shaking her head. “No,” she kept saying, “No.”
 
Isabel rode out to the forest. Drizzle soaked her but she barely noticed it. Should she just keep riding? Could she escape? But she knew if she did she could never go back, she knew she’d be giving up everything. And she knew if she was caught, the sentence would be far worse than two dozen with the birch. She felt sick just to think of it. To be stripped in public, bound to a post and whipped. She didn’t dare think of the pain. And then the stocks. Locked there for two hours, rendered helpless to the whims of the mob. She was popular, she knew, but she also knew that a noble in the stocks would draw little sympathy. And she wasn’t stupid; she was aware that as an attractive woman she would bear the brunt of a particular kind of abuse.


Floggings weren’t common in the town; the flogging of women even rarer. She remembered no more than about half a dozen women flogged in her lifetime, the last one two or three years ago, a plump and ageing whore who’d taken a dozen with the birch in an atmosphere of widespread hilarity. She thought of seeing her large sagging breasts pushed against the post and the clear glee of the few dozen people in the square, their jokes at her shame. God, the thought of her breasts being bared to their mockery. Her chest tightened at the prospect.


How many people would be there? A hundred maybe? She thought back to the last public flogging three or four months earlier, a young shepherd lashed for stealing wool from a local farmer. There’d been perhaps forty people there to watch him cringe as he took the birch. He’d been what, 16? 17, maybe? She’d felt appalled for him, had made a point of sending balm to him to ease his pain after the beating. How many had he taken? Was that two dozen? A dozen maybe? All she remembered was that it had seemed to go on for ever, lash after relentless lash as he howled. And he was a strong boy; how could she take two dozen?


And the stocks were just as bad. They were used only rarely but she remembered the horrific bullying of a baker who’d be found to have spread lies about a merchant’s wife. He’d spent an hour in the stocks 18 months ago and had been pelted almost constantly with rotten vegetables and his own stale bread, subjected to such savage mockery that he’d fled the valley the following week and never returned. It was legalised bullying and she was glad the local magistrate tended to avoid it as a punishment. There’d been old Mrs White five years ago, of course, a bitter crone who was a spiteful gossip. Isabel had only been a teenager at the time and had gone along with the vague thought that the old biddy deserved it. Yet so bad had the abuse been they’d had to release her after less than 20 minutes and she’d died about six months later, some said broken by the shame.


She wondered if what had happened were legal but she knew church commissions were mysterious things. And besides, her stepmother had ratified the sentence. No magistrate would go against her. She turned up towards the hills and, as she did so, caught sight of a horseman behind her. He quickly disappeared from view behind the trees but she had seen enough to recognise him as one of Maude’s grooms. So, she was being followed. Even if she wanted to escape, her stepmother was making sure she couldn’t.


What was in it for her, Isabel wondered. The two of them had never got on, of course, but why would she be so determined to humiliate her in this way? If Maude had wanted to, she could have persuaded the bishop to impose some fine, even to have her whipped in private. And yet even as she though that, her soul rebelled: they were right; she did think nobles should pay for crimes in the same way as peasants. The problem was not the punishment but the way the church could arbitrarily deem guilt. Yet even that worried her, for if the bishop were the agent of God then maybe he could?


But none of that answered the question of what Maude was doing. Her father, she knew, was too ill really to understand. She’d been permitted ten minutes with him that morning – by a physician clearly acting under Maude’s instruction, and he’d simply seemed confused when she’d gently hinted at what was happening. Was this some power game? Was Maude trying to weaken her position to give herself freer rein when her father died? The more she thought about it, the more she saw how the political interests of church and Maude were aligned.
 
Dick looked through the window of the tavern and belched. On the raised open area in front of the cathedral, two wooden stands were being raised, built at a slight angle, funnelling to the main doors, but clearly focused on the stone platform that stood about 30 metres from the cathedral steps. It was about six yards square and, about four feet in from the centre of the side nearest the cathedral stood a solid wooden post, perhaps seven feet high and nine inches in diameter. A thick metal ring had been hammered in about a foot from the top on the cathedral side.

“Another pint, please,” Dick said to the barman, before spitting loudly in the bucket that stood at the end of the bar.

He turned back to the square, stretching about 80 yards to the steps. It still seemed incredible to him, but in two days they were going to tie the Lady Isabel to that post and flog her. He had tried repeatedly since the news was announced to conjure the image in his mind – the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, a noblewoman, being birched – but it seemed too absurd. Would they really strip her? Would they get to see her tits? And would they really put her in the stocks for two hours of abuse?

The barman lay a tankard of ale on the counter before him. “Looks like this flogging is happening, then,” Dick said.

“Aye. They’re booking out our roof for a good view,” the barman said. “You want a place?”

“I might, aye. Although I might get here early and get right up the front. She’s a pretty thing. I want to see her properly. Get a proper look at noble tits.”

“They’ll never strip her.”

“No?”

“She’s a noblewoman. She’s not a whore. They’ll give her something to wear that bares her back and keeps her chest covered. No way will they let us see her.”

“But imagine if they do…”

“They won’t… I’m not sure she’s got much anyway. Thin little thing.”

“Really? Lovely looking thin little thing… You wouldn’t say no if she came in here offering a shag for a couple of beers.”

“I wouldn’t for any woman… But, yes, she’s a beauty alright.”

*

Sir Thomas surveyed the preparations with satisfaction and no little excitement. If this worked, if she was left too humiliated and scared to challenge her stepmother, it had to be good for him. He was the one who’d arranged all this, he was the one who’d forged the alliance between the church and Lady Maude. She would be grateful and he could only benefit.


There were practical considerations. For one thing, there was talk of people descending on the town from miles around, desperate to see a beautiful noblewoman birched. He had to organise the militia – and they could protect her as she sat in the stocks. Two of them could administer the flogging as well: Tom, the head of the bishop’s stable, was the designated beadle and Will the blacksmith was his assistant; both strong muscular men who could be relied upon not to go easy on her. Having made such a play of the equality of the law for everyone, it was essential there was no suggestion that the lashes were not being applied with full vigour.


And that, of course, left one further matter, which was what the Lady Isabel was to be permitted to wear while they beat her, and that was why he had come to see Lady Maude.
 
Maude looked at Sir Thomas. “What would a woman being flogged usually wear?” she asked. She rather wished she weren’t the one having to make the decision. Surely the law was the law.


“Usually, your ladyship, a felon is stripped to the waist, to bare the back to the lash,” he replied, his cheeks reddening slightly.


“Then you shall strip her to the waist.” She saw the flush on him and for the first time she had a real sense of what Isabel had been sentenced to. Imagine: to have your breasts exposed to the mob. Well, it might stop her being so insufferably prim. “What, you want to protect her because she’s a noble?”


Sir Thomas stammered. “N-not at all, your ladyship. But it is best to be clear.” He had a further question. He swallowed and asked. “And in the stocks, your ladyship, what should we have her wear?”


“What is usual?”


“It depends, your ladyship. Men would often be left shirtless so the lashmarks can be seen. With women there is an option to show discretion…”


Maude tried to picture Isabel in the stocks. Would it be better to humiliate her utterly or to show mercy? She didn’t want people to think her vindictive. “Let me think about it,” she said. Sir Thomas, she saw, had gone bright red.

*

Isabel wrapped her cloak tighter about her. It was a cold, clear night and she had no desire to be recognised. She sat on her groom’s horse – hers was too well known - and looked across the moonlit square. She saw the post on its podium, stark and terrifying. In around 36 hours she’d be bound to that. She had little doubt they’d strip her – she knew humiliating her was part of the game – and her gentle breasts would be forced against the wood. And then they’d flog her, the supple stems of the birch striking her 24 times, and as they did so the crowd would laugh and cheer. Her pain would be their entertainment. There’d be the nobles and the wealthy in the stands and the mob in the square. How horrifying those stands were: to prepare like that, to make her punishment almost a social event.


And when they’d birched her, she’d be dragged across the square to the stocks. She looked at them, the heavy wood, the holes for her feet, the little rough bench she’d sit on while they abused her however they saw fit for two hours. Two hours at their mercy. After she’d been flogged. She considered again the possibility of flight. Could she get away? Where would she go? But she knew they were watching, that they wouldn’t go to all this trouble without making sure she was going to be there to be degraded. To have her breasts bared in public… it was horrendous. Her breasts were small, she knew, and she dreaded them being exposed to the mockery of the crowd. She could feel herself flushing even then. The post would offer some protection but she knew they’d make her wait after stripping her before binding her, that they’d drag out the time after the beating before they’d give her her clothes back. She knew this was about shaming her.


She thought of the baker sitting there, desperately fighting off the hail of missiles, eventually broken and left to weep as the mob savaged him. She thought of the prostitute and those oversized breasts. She thought of Mrs White, grey with humiliation. She turned the horse back towards the manor and rode, tears streaming down her own cheeks.
 
Simon wrapped his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The sun was just rising but it was a chilly morning and the frost was thick on the ground. He had qualms about leaving his sheep, even for two days, but this was something he couldn’t miss. He had been 40 last birthday and he had never known anything like this. It would take him around 12 hours to reach the town, he estimated, but it was worth it to watch Lady Isabel being whipped.


He had seen her once, on one of his rare trips to market. He’d heard them speak of her, of course, of her beauty and her intelligence but nothing had prepared him for actually seeing her. She’d ridden across the market-place, erect and graceful on her horse. Her face had captivated him, a face of intelligence and kindness, the eyes dark and warm, the nose delicate, the jaw suggesting determination and strength of character. He’d felt his heart contract as he’d watched her, so sure of herself, so confident, her lovely brown hair held in a loose pony tail. She’d worn a white shirt that day that had emphasised her slenderness, her legs clad in tight britches, boots to her knees. The thought of her had sustained him through many lonely nights and now he was going to see her again.


He doubted they’d strip her, not a noble, but they’d surely bare her back for the birch. Even that, the thought of her smooth skin flinching under the lash, sent a stirring through him. And to see her humiliated in the stocks, to watch her bound helpless to be abused; he didn’t understand why that turned him on so, but he had to see it.

*

There weren’t many times when Osbert was thankful his cook was so stupid but this was one of them. Going through the larder, he’d found several eggs that were off, a dozen of of them properly rotten. He wrapped each one in cloth and then packed them in straw in a bucket. He planned to break each one over Isabel as she sat in the stocks. He wanted to make sure the arrogant bitch was humiliated.


She had been his first. Not his first fuck; she was far too frigid for that. She’d been his first love, his first kiss. They’d briefly been together when they’d been 16. Perhaps three or four weeks before he’d tried to reach inside her shirt and touch her burgeoning breast and she’d dumped him. He’d tried to win her back, apologised, wooed her, but to no avail. His father, of course, owned less land that hers, but still, options weren’t exactly plentiful. Yet she scorned him and he’d watched her become ever more beautiful and ever more popular. Until now. He’d watch her whipped and then he’d make sure her two hours in the stocks were as degrading as possible. This was his revenge and he was going to enjoy it.

*

Isabel lay in bed but sleep would not come. Constantly she was tormented by the thought that in the morning she would be publicly whipped. She thought of the humiliation and she thought of the pain. What did you wear to be flogged? Would they strip her to the waist? She was sure they would and yet a slight hope remained. Perhaps if she wore a loose shift they could bare her back and leave her breasts covered, tie it at her neck or something?


Eventually, unable to sleep, she rose and lit the candle that stood by her bed. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she lit the fire, still glowing from the previous night, to heat some water to wash – but her maid was there almost immediately, seeming also unable to sleep. Isabel washed thoroughly. She had to look her best, she thought bitterly, for the show she was to put on. She tied her hair in a pony-tail - leave it loose and she feared they may cut it. Then she dressed in a linen shift, tucking it into her riding britches, in woollen hose of a deep green, a pale shirt, a brown tunic, loosely belted. Her maid took her hand. “Good luck, my lady,” she said.


“Thank you,” said Isabel and, feeling tears rising, she walked to the door.
 
King Diocletian said:
Simon wrapped his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The sun was just rising but it was a chilly morning and the frost was thick on the ground. He had qualms about leaving his sheep, even for two days, but this was something he couldn’t miss. He had been 40 last birthday and he had never known anything like this. It would take him around 12 hours to reach the town, he estimated, but it was worth it to watch Lady Isabel being whipped.


He had seen her once, on one of his rare trips to market. He’d heard them speak of her, of course, of her beauty and her intelligence but nothing had prepared him for actually seeing her. She’d ridden across the market-place, erect and graceful on her horse. Her face had captivated him, a face of intelligence and kindness, the eyes dark and warm, the nose delicate, the jaw suggesting determination and strength of character. He’d felt his heart contract as he’d watched her, so sure of herself, so confident, her lovely brown hair held in a loose pony tail. She’d worn a white shirt that day that had emphasised her slenderness, her legs clad in tight britches, boots to her knees. The thought of her had sustained him through many lonely nights and now he was going to see her again.


He doubted they’d strip her, not a noble, but they’d surely bare her back for the birch. Even that, the thought of her smooth skin flinching under the lash, sent a stirring through him. And to see her humiliated in the stocks, to watch her bound helpless to be abused; he didn’t understand why that turned him on so, but he had to see it.

*

There weren’t many times when Osbert was thankful his cook was so stupid but this was one of them. Going through the larder, he’d found several eggs that were off, a dozen of of them properly rotten. He wrapped each one in cloth and then packed them in straw in a bucket. He planned to break each one over Isabel as she sat in the stocks. He wanted to make sure the arrogant bitch was humiliated.


She had been his first. Not his first fuck; she was far too frigid for that. She’d been his first love, his first kiss. They’d briefly been together when they’d been 16. Perhaps three or four weeks before he’d tried to reach inside her shirt and touch her burgeoning breast and she’d dumped him. He’d tried to win her back, apologised, wooed her, but to no avail. His father, of course, owned less land that hers, but still, options weren’t exactly plentiful. Yet she scorned him and he’d watched her become ever more beautiful and ever more popular. Until now. He’d watch her whipped and then he’d make sure her two hours in the stocks were as degrading as possible. This was his revenge and he was going to enjoy it.

*

Isabel lay in bed but sleep would not come. Constantly she was tormented by the thought that in the morning she would be publicly whipped. She thought of the humiliation and she thought of the pain. What did you wear to be flogged? Would they strip her to the waist? She was sure they would and yet a slight hope remained. Perhaps if she wore a loose shift they could bare her back and leave her breasts covered, tie it at her neck or something?


Eventually, unable to sleep, she rose and lit the candle that stood by her bed. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she lit the fire, still glowing from the previous night, to heat some water to wash – but her maid was there almost immediately, seeming also unable to sleep. Isabel washed thoroughly. She had to look her best, she thought bitterly, for the show she was to put on. She tied her hair in a pony-tail - leave it loose and she feared they may cut it. Then she dressed in a linen shift, tucking it into her riding britches, in woollen hose of a deep green, a pale shirt, a brown tunic, loosely belted. Her maid took her hand. “Good luck, my lady,” she said.


“Thank you,” said Isabel and, feeling tears rising, she walked to the door.
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Nice chapter your majesty!!!

T
 
Tom woke early. He had slept fitfully, anxious about his role in the biggest event in town for years. As a beadle he was used to applying the cane or the birch to miscreants - usually a quick half dozen for novice monks who had stepped out of line – but this was something very different. Flogging a woman was rare. He occasionally got to beat a servant-girl in the bishop’s staff - but only on those all too rare occasions when it was felt a man’s arm was needed to apply a suitably severe punishment. And there’d been that plump whore a couple of years ago with her freckled skin and the huge sloppy breasts. But this was something quite different: to flog a beautiful noblewoman with dozens and dozens of people watching, to take a birch to a woman who was used to being in command, well, it excited him but it terrified him. He’d thought about her at night – which man in the town hadn’t? About taking that slender, delicate form, holding her by that narrow waist and pumping her. She looked so demure and yet he was sure there was an animal waiting to be unleashed.


He dressed, deciding to put on his best shirt, the one he usually wore for church. This was, after all, a special occasion. He still thought about flogging that scullery maid who’d sworn at the bishop and that was, what, three years ago? He remembered her terror as she’d been dragged in front of the household, blonde hair thrashing around as the cook and the groom held her down over the kitchen table and bared her pert arse. Taking a switch to her had been a joy, the memory of her howls as he’d striped her skin still excited him – and that had only been six strokes. She’d been pretty but Lady Isabel was another level altogether.


Tom leaned over the bed and kissed his wife. “I have to go, love,” he said. “But you’ll come to watch?”


“Of course,” she said with a yawn and a smile, reaching up and squeezing his brawny bicep. “Make the stuck-up bitch scream.”


The birch was harder to apply than the cane, of course. He’d prepared six rods the previous night, leaving them to soak, remembering to add vinegar and salt to the mix and place the bucket by the fire so the water wouldn’t freeze. Each was between four and five feet long, comprised of eight whippy birch stems, bound at the handle and covered by about a foot of cloth for grip. His predecessor had liked great sprays at the end but while that could draw blood faster, it also meant twigs breaking off and, Tom thought, made it harder to swing with any great pace. He cut straightish switches each spring, trying to find steams that were laden with buds. Preserved over a year they would harden and increase the pain significantly. The cane still hit harder but the birch, delivered properly, did a fine job of spreading the impact and breaking the skin, causing pain without doing a huge amount of internal damage.

*

Wat followed her, a couple of hundred yards behind. It was a cloudless night and chilly, although the frost was not thick. In the moonlight she was easy to follow, erect in the saddle as always. He was scared for her, wished he could take her punishment on himself. He had served as her groom for six years now and he loved her in his way; the thought of watching her humiliated and flogged appalled him. He was determined to do the right thing by her so he had decided to follow her, to make sure she did nothing stupid. If she tried to flee, he knew, they would track her down and her punishment would be far worse.


He’d waited in the stables, intending to approach her but there’d been something in her sadness and resignation when she’d saddled up her horse that had made him hold back. Did she know he was following her? On a normal day she couldn’t but have known, but this morning she seemed wrapped in her own thoughts, moving slowly and deliberately, barely lifting her eyes as she plodded into the town. He watched her circle to the back of the vestry by the cathedral, avoiding the marketplace. She dropped wearily from her horse, and with gestures that seemed automatic, hitched it to the rail. She raised the knocker with seeming effort and let it fall, once, twice, three times. She had to wait but eventually the door opened and she was admitted, entering the darkness without a backward glance.


Wat trotted back into the marketplace and was forced by a member of the watch to leave his horse at a newly-erected rail some distance away. The reason soon became clear. Even at that early hour, still 30 minutes before sunrise, the marketplace was packed. He had no idea how many people; more than he’d ever seen in one place before, that was for sure: hundreds certainly, perhaps over a thousand. Some had clearly slept there. There were people in the tavern, some taking places around the stocks but most were crowded round the platform where she’d be whipped. He squeezed through to try to find his own position between the post and the stocks. He wanted, if he could, to let her know he was there for her, that she wasn’t alone.


He didn’t know how he'd expected people to treat this, but he was shocked by the conversations he heard. People seemed to be regarding this as a great day out, a holiday at which a noblewoman would be humiliated for their entertainment. There was laughter and jollity and lewd discussions about whether they’d get to see her tits or not. Didn’t they understand? Didn’t they realise what she’d done for them? That she was being punished because she’d tried to stand up for them? How stupid were they? Wat could feel tears of frustration pricking at his eyes. How could they be so ungrateful?
 
King Diocletian said:
What would a woman being flogged usually wear?” she asked. She rather wished she weren’t the one having to make the decision. Surely the law was the law.


“Usually, your ladyship, a felon is stripped to the waist, to bare the back to the lash,” he replied, his cheeks reddening slightly.


“Then you shall strip her to the waist.”
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Definitely a no-brainer as far as I'm concerned!
 
King Diocletian said:
Taking a switch to her had been a joy, the memory of her howls as he’d striped her skin still excited him – and that had only been six strokes. She’d been pretty but Lady Isabel was another level altogether.
Click to expand...


I so love a flogger who really enjoys his work, as opposed to one who merely does his job.

Be fruitful and multiply, Tom, and be the forefather of generations of fictional floggers who will infuse their profession with enthusiasm.
 
After being admitted to the cathedral by a servant, Isabel had been escorted to a small office at the front of the vestry. She’d been there around 10 minutes when Sir Thomas walked in. It had come as a great relief to him that she’d been on time. Outside, he knew, a crowd was gathering and it would have been a huge embarrassment to have let them down. “Good morning,” he said. She looked dolefully at him.

“Good morning,” she replied. Her quiet sadness seemed to emphasis her beauty, the delicate face, the deep brown eyes.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asked. “A drink?”

Her stare spoke of weariness and disgust. “No, thank you.” She seemed so composed, but in a couple of hours he had no doubt she would be half naked, stripped to just those snug britches. He knew she’d caught him starting at her chest, imagining how it would look when the cloak and the tunic and the shift were removed. He didn’t care: there’d be plenty of other staring at her today.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said. “If you could strip down to your britches and one item to cover your upper body by then…”

He locked the door as he left.

*

Osbert took his place in the stand. It was still early, the sun just rising over the tavern, but the square was already packed. Even the reserved seating was filling up. He pulled his cloak tight around him; it was chilly; he wouldn’t want to be half naked in that weather. Round the edge of the square there were stalls, smoke and steam billowing in the cold air as food was prepared. He’d even seen someone roasting a pig to sell hunks of pork; this really was being treated as a holiday.


There were probably seats for around 100 or 120 in the stands, but the marke place itself could hold far more. The militia had drafted extra members but he still wondered if they’d be able to cope. There were at least a couple of thousand people in the square already, all desperate to see a beautiful noblewoman humiliated. He wondered if they’d try to spare her at all, let her cover her breasts somehow when she was whipped but he struggled to see how that could be justified.

*<p>

Isabel paced about the room. There was a small fire burning in the grate, but it was still chilly. Breathing seemed difficult, as though there were a blockage in her chest. She tried to remain calm but the truth was that she was terrified. She swallowed and let out a deep sigh. She should prepare herself, she knew. Slowly, she stripped, knowing that by the time she saw her clothes again, she’d have been flogged. She was grateful, at least, that they weren’t watching this part of the process as her cold, numb fingers struggled with the clasp of her cloak.


She folded her tunic neatly, so she stood in just her shift, her britches and her boots. She sat and began unlacing the boots, regretting the tightness of the britches. Her hose followed, leaving her bare from the knees down. Her feet rebelled against the cold stone floor and she tucked them under her thighs on the chair.
 
Maude sat by the bishop, hugging her furs tighter around her. It had been light for over an hour now but it was still cold and her breath steamed. The vast crowd worried her a little; she needed Isabel humiliated but a mob like this could easily get out of hand. So far, though, there was a festival mood, people laughing and joking, all waiting expectantly for the pubic punishment of a beautiful noblewoman.


The cathedral doors opened and the square slowly fell silent. Two members of the militia, armed with pikes, strode out. Behind them came Sir Thomas and the deacon, and then the two members of the militia charged with administering the flogging. Behind them were three more militiamen, the middle of them holding a length of rope, and attached to that was Isabel, barefoot and stripped to shift and britches. Behind her were another four guards. Their breath steamed above them.


Isabel’s wrists had been bound in front of her, but she walked calmly – there was no need to drag her. She looked cold and seemed startled by the number of people but she had that grace that so irritated Maude. She seemed unflustered as she walked out onto the large raised area in front of the cathedral. And, most annoyingly for Maude, she looked beautiful, her soft hair hanging in a pony-tail behind her, anxiousness only emphasising the alluring mix of strength and delicacy in her face.


Isabel felt her stomach churning. She’d ever seen so many people before. All here to watch her suffer. The cold bit through her thin shift. Her nipples were standing erect. She flushed with the realisation the mob could probably see them through the fine linen. The frosted stone burned her feet. She hesitated and the guard jerked the rope so she was pulled forward, stumbling slightly. The crowd, which had fallen silent as she’d emerged, gave a low roar of appreciation. She’d wanted to appear calm, to retain as much dignity as possible, but it was so cold she shivered – and that roar troubled her. There was no sympathy here.


Simon couldn’t believe this was happening. She was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. He’d got a position about 10 yards from the platform. As she was pulled towards him, the crowd swayed and he was carried forward two or three paces. She looked anxious but there was a radiance about her, the tight britches emphasised her slenderness, and the way her hair was tied up emphasised the elegance of her cheek bones.


Wat felt ill. He was in love with Isabel, of course; how could he not be? Even as they dragged her along the walkway that led from the cathedral steps to the platform on which the whipping post was set, she retained a certain dignity. Her dark eyes radiated hurt but she wasn’t crying and it was clear to anybody who looked that the guards were manhandling her; she wasn’t resisting. And yet for all her courage, she seemed unbearably delicate and frail, shivering in the cold. He had hung back, avoiding the worst of the crowd, although they’d packed in around him, and was perhaps 100 feet from the podium. He wished he could take this for her, spare her the leering of all these oafs. She was barefoot on the frost: such cruelty for a lady. He’d seen her in boots a million times, been turned on by the shape of her legs in the leather. And those britches: how often had he stared at her legs in the tight material, yearned for her?


It seemed eerily silent in the square, a low sun just peering over the cathedral but doing little to raise the temperature. Sir Thomas surveyed the crowd, hundreds of them packed tightly in, and then he looked her, at Lady Isabel, as she stood trembling on the platform by the stern whipping post. She seemed apprehensive but not terrified as she stood demurely, wrists bound in front of her, a temple guard at each arm. He cleared his throat.


“Lady Isabel,” he intoned, “has been convicted of two counts of blasphemy.” A few boos broke out and there was laughter. She stood with head bowed. “She has been sentenced to two dozen lashes of the birch-” Great cheers broke out. One of the temple guards shoved her slightly and as she stumbled a couple of inches forward she glanced up, seeing the mob gleefully awaiting her beating. Sir Thomas felt a moment of pity for her: a good girl thrown to the wolves for political reasons, but he carried on, relishing his role in the centre of the drama. “Two dozen lashes of the birch,” he repeated, “to be administered to her naked back-” more cheers – “at the public post.”


“Strip her!” somebody shouted. “Let’s see her tits!”


“Strip her!” the cry went up.


From the balcony of the tavern, Dick joined in. He was annoyingly far away, but at least he had his beer and an unobstructed view. “Strip her!” He had no idea whether they were planning to strip her anyway, but if he could help make them make her take her shift off he was going to. What interested him was the number of women yelling for her to be stripped, the great desire to see her humiliated. She stood with her head down, wrists bound, shivering. God, he hoped they’d bare her. The noble was trying to quieten the crowd, holding up his hands pathetically, but eventually the roars fell to a murmur. “And then,” he said, in that slow deep tone of voice pompous people used, “she will spend two hours in the public stocks.” There were more cheers, tankards raised, laughter.


Isabel stared at the stone platform, dusted white with frost in places. Her feet ached with the cold. Everything seemed strangely still. She was aware of her heart thumping, a tightness in her throat, but she could barely focus. Her breath steamed in the chill air. Two members of the temple guard took her arms and another untied the rope that bound her wrists together. She flexed her fingers, looking at the abrasions the rough hemp had left on her skin. This was it then. “Strip her to the waist,” ordered Sir Thomas.


One of the temple guards stepped up and began to unfasten the lace that held her shift secure at the neck. She swallowed, staring at the dark tunic of the temple guard, just visible where his scarlet cloak hung open. He undid the bow and then loosed the string where it criss-crossed her chest, passing through three eyelets on either side. Then, with a jerk, he yanked the lace out altogether, and she gasped – pathetically, to her annoyance – as the end whipped against her skin.


Osbert could feel himself getting hard. Her shift gaped, offering just a glimpse of cleavage – further than he’d ever got with her. But in a second she would be naked from the waist up and everybody would see her tits. The two guards behind her gripped her arms, holding them by her sides. She was looking down, shame written all over her. The guard in front carefully slid his hands inside the neck of the shift, pushing further open until her shoulders were bare and then, in one sudden, smooth movement, he wrenched the shift down. The guards behind her eased it over her arms and it slid to the ground, revealing her breasts to the mob. A silence fell across the market-place as the realisation dawned that a noblewoman had been exposed to them. Then there was a roar and shouts and jeers. Osbert heard Isabel’s gasp as she was stripped. His first impression was her paleness, a pure expanse of white skin. She closed her eyes, but she could do nothing to cover herself as the guards, holding her arms, turned her to face the post and shepherded her towards it. He stared at the shallow hillocks, the pink nipples rigid in the cold. That was what he could have had; they should have been his.


In the tavern, the talk was all of how she had no tits. Dick admitted he was a little disappointed. He liked a woman big and meaty and while it had been obvious she wouldn’t have much, held hoped for more than that. And yet still, he found himself turned on by her vulnerability, her slender grace as the guards led her to the post.


Isabel sensed the darkness of the post before her and opened her eyes. Her cheeks were burning. She’d tried to shut everything out but she could hear the comments and the taunts. She felt faint. It was so wrong that she should stand in just a pair of britches while they all stared at her. She felt almost as though she had to force herself to breathe. The post was square, about nine inches across, glazed with frost. They pushed her against it, lifting her arms either side of it so for a moment she was embracing the icy wood. It seemed to burn her breasts so cold was it, and she felt a thudding of nausea in the depths of her stomach. She glanced down.


Tom watched as the militia fastened hempen rope around her wrists. Her beauty was stunning; far greater close up than he had imagined, her face fresh and gentle, her skin astonishingly pale and smooth. Her back would be the most lovely back he had ever whipped. It was slender, astonishingly so, almost unimaginably narrow, the knots of her vertebrae clear through the delicate skin. Usually the blows of the right-handed flogger would strike the right-hand side of the back with the greatest force, and the left-hander the left; although a weal would be left across the whole back, the worst impact was always where the tip dug in. It was common for prisoners to be left with two columns of bleeding welts, a relatively unblemished strip running down the spine in between. But with her there was no space for that; the welts would cross and that would increase the pain.


Maude settled. She’d been worried how the crowd would react, whether the sight of Isabel bound and then stripped would rouse them to pity, but they just seemed thrilled to see her half-naked before them. And Isabel, for once, seemed to have lost her calm. She was visibly shivering as the militia meticulously bound tied her wrists to the iron ring behind the post, though whether though cold or fear it was difficult to say. The beadle drew a switch from the deep bucket. It was about five feet long, a bundle of silver birch stems. He flexed it, swished it through the air, then handed it with a nod to his assistant. This was about to happen. Maude felt a little stunned. Isabel looked frozen, skin pink and nipples bright red in the cold morning air. The beadle took out another birch, checked the ties holding the switches, flexed it, swung it a couple of times, then lay it down and tested another one. He was finally satisfied by the third he drew out. He was of only average height – his assistant was much taller – but Maude noted his stocky form, the swell of his forearm under his shirt; he was a powerful man.


As the two temple guards backed away, Tom approached her. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He checked the bonds; they were secure, holding her arms a little slacker than straight – it was good to let her writhe a little. He stepped tight behind her, under the pretence of checking her hair. Her skin was amazingly soft. She was quivering, her skin goosepimpled, shoulders slightly hunched. He put his hands on the shallow curve in from her hipbones. It was like touching warm silk. He let his hands drop to the waistband of her britches and just edged them down half an inch or so. He turned away and picked up his switch again, thrashing it through the air.
 
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