Great chapter King D!!!
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A Political Act
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
I fear for Isabel suffering two hours in the stocks with the mob as worked up as they are. Let's hope the guards or the church can restore some form of order.
Whatever happens, Isabel will never be quite the same. I hope King D that you continue your story enough that we get at least a hint of her long-term future.
Whatever happens, Isabel will never be quite the same. I hope King D that you continue your story enough that we get at least a hint of her long-term future.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Simon knew this was his chance to get close. He was an angular, powerful man and forced his way through the crowd. There were squabbles and scuffles breaking out all over as people tried to get nearer. The guards were driving their way through the mob, pushing with their staffs and there, suddenly she was, beautiful and pure, eyes flicking about in terror as she was manhandled through the crowd towards the stocks. She seemed impossibly pale, her skin astonishingly smooth. Her arms were clamped across her chest but he saw the gentle swelling above her forearms, the start of her cleavage augmented by the way her thin upper arms squeezed her breasts together.
She was clearly terrified, shaking in the cold as they shoved her through the crowds. As the mob shifted, Simon got to within four or five feet of her. He saw others spitting at her, jeering, their faces contorted with fury. He wanted her to acknowledge him, to see him staring at her, and for a moment, her brown eyes locked onto him and he wondered if he had made it happen. But then she turned away and he realised she was just twisting, squirming in humiliation. He saw the gentle curve of her shoulder and then she was past him, and he saw with a sense of shock her whipped back, luridly pink and covered with a mass of wheals and scratches. As they hustled her on, his last thought was of how absurdly narrow her waist was above her britches.
Sir Thomas wished he’d cleared a route from the whipping post to the stocks beforehand. He could have set up barriers and manned them properly, and saved this chaos. He watched from the platform where she’d been flogged as she was bundled through the crowds, which would rise and fall like a wave as the peasants jostled to see her. He saw them spit on her and was disgusted. She was, after all, a noble – and what reason did they have to hate her? She was surrounded, the guards struggling to hold the crowds back. Every now and then she disappeared from view as the guards and mob closed around her, and then he’d see her head again, her hair springing loose from the pony-tail, stray tendrils drifting over her neck. Occasionally the crowds would part just a fraction and he’d catch a glimpse of that slender back, burning red now.
In the stand, the dignitaries were beginning to move. Osbert was desperate to get over to the stocks, to see her shame. He was stunned that they were apparently going to leave her topless. That was two hours he could stare at her. But he didn’t want to look too eager. There was a certain decorum to be observed. Lady Maude was only now getting to her feet, a half-smile on her face as she stared across at her step-daughter being buffeted half-naked across the square. The bishop had barely shifted his gaze from the extraordinary sight, a noble being openly taunted by the commoners, her dignity shredded.
There was a gasp and a roar and Osbert saw that Isabel had stumbled. There were shouts as the guards pulled her to her feet, and he realised that, for a moment at least, her arms must have come away from her chest, offering a close-up view of her breasts to those lucky enough to be near her. He saw that lithe body wriggling as she pulled her arms down and across herself and he saw one of the guards give her a rough shove that nearly sent her down again. He couldn’t wait any longer. Taking up his basket carefully, he set off round the edge of the square.
*
Isabel’s cheeks burned with shame. Her back was hurting dreadfully, the muscles stiff and sore, the skin raw and stinging. She was jockeyed and jostled, more spittle landed on her and she thought she might fall again, her numb feet struggling to find purchase on the frozen ground. Then, at last, they got to the low barrier designed to protect those in the stocks from the mob. The rules were clear: they could shout and spit and throw things, but nobody could pass that point. She stepped over it, shoved by the guards, arms still hooked across her chest. There were three shallow steps up and then the platform on which the stocks stood, the dark wood glistening with frost.
The guards hustled her around it. She couldn’t take her eyes off it, this symbol of shame. She thought of the baker and she thought of Mrs White. She thought of their humiliation and she knew she was about to undergo worse. They pushed her down onto the low bench. Her back roared in pain as the muscles adjusted to her new position, her buttocks chilled instantly by the frost through her britches. She glanced up and saw the mass of faces, crowding at the barrier, stretching back as far as she could see, most leering and gawping, none it seemed offering anything like sympathy. She hugged herself tighter, feeling how her nipples stood on end in the cold. The pain in her back was awful, the cold air seeming to make the sting worse. She saw the upper bar on the stocks being lifted, and guards seized her legs, yanking her bare calves forward and positioning her ankles in the shallow dips in the lower bar. The top bar was brought down, and her feet were trapped. This was it, then: two hours sitting there in the cold, naked to the waist, being laughed at. She watched as the clasp was fastened, locking the two halves of the stocks together. The guards backed away and the time of her shaming had officially begun. She looked up at the clockface on the cathedral: twenty to ten.
“Whore!” came a shout, and she turned her gaze back to the mob. They were massed behind the low barrier, the nearest no more than eight feet away, their faces stretching back across the square. Others took up the shout, and she saw spittle flying towards her, much of it falling short. She clutched herself tighter, carefully positioning her palms over her nipples. She shivered. It was bitterly cold. “Where’s her tits? She’s got nothing,” shouted an old woman, her eyes bulging with fury. What was wrong with these people? “She’s got two backs.” Isabel looked down at her feet, and vowed she would stare at her toes and count to 100 before lifting her eyes. She tried to block out the insults. She’d got to about 40 when something struck her painfully on the left shoulder, glancing off and striking the ground somewhere behind her with a damp splat.
She started and looked up, hearing the laughter of the crowd. Before her she saw Osbert, a broad grin on his bovine face. The mob had opened up around him and he stood proudly by the barrier, a basket in his left hand. His right arm was pulled back. She watched dumbly as he brought it forward and only at the last did she realise he was throwing something at her. Him! A noble. A dark shape flashed through the air. An egg. He was pelting her with eggs. She flinched, but far too late, and it hit the centre of her chest, just above her crossed arms.
She gasped with the shock then realised with horror that the egg had broken and was oozing between her breasts. Worse, it was rotten. The smell was terrible. She stared at it, the slime streaking down her pale chest, and collecting where her forearms were crossed over her breasts. There was nothing she could do. The only way of dislodging it was to move her arms, and that would expose her breasts. “Go on, clean it up!” came a shout.
“Lick it off!” came another.
“I’ll lick it off!” There were hoots of laughter.
A space opened around Osbert. She couldn’t believe she’d once kissed him, that for a couple of crazy weeks she’d wondered if she might marry him. She saw him, laughing with one of his friends, lay down the basket and take up another egg. How many did he have? The mob fell silent, waiting. He weighed the egg in his hand, raised it and- nothing. She flinched, ducking her head away, and the crowd roared with amusement as it realised he’d only dummied. Then he did throw it and it struck her, almost before she’d seen it, hard on the temple. For a moment she was stunned by the blow and then she realised the ooze was sliding down over her left eye. Slowly, carefully, adjusting her left arm, she raised her right hand to try to scoop the gunk away. There were roars and wolf-whistles. Could they see her? She realised the top of her left nipple might be visible. What could she do? She swept her right hand across her face, flicking the filth away, and then quickly hugged herself again. “Tie her hands behind her!” somebody shouted, “Tie her! Tie her!”
She was clearly terrified, shaking in the cold as they shoved her through the crowds. As the mob shifted, Simon got to within four or five feet of her. He saw others spitting at her, jeering, their faces contorted with fury. He wanted her to acknowledge him, to see him staring at her, and for a moment, her brown eyes locked onto him and he wondered if he had made it happen. But then she turned away and he realised she was just twisting, squirming in humiliation. He saw the gentle curve of her shoulder and then she was past him, and he saw with a sense of shock her whipped back, luridly pink and covered with a mass of wheals and scratches. As they hustled her on, his last thought was of how absurdly narrow her waist was above her britches.
Sir Thomas wished he’d cleared a route from the whipping post to the stocks beforehand. He could have set up barriers and manned them properly, and saved this chaos. He watched from the platform where she’d been flogged as she was bundled through the crowds, which would rise and fall like a wave as the peasants jostled to see her. He saw them spit on her and was disgusted. She was, after all, a noble – and what reason did they have to hate her? She was surrounded, the guards struggling to hold the crowds back. Every now and then she disappeared from view as the guards and mob closed around her, and then he’d see her head again, her hair springing loose from the pony-tail, stray tendrils drifting over her neck. Occasionally the crowds would part just a fraction and he’d catch a glimpse of that slender back, burning red now.
In the stand, the dignitaries were beginning to move. Osbert was desperate to get over to the stocks, to see her shame. He was stunned that they were apparently going to leave her topless. That was two hours he could stare at her. But he didn’t want to look too eager. There was a certain decorum to be observed. Lady Maude was only now getting to her feet, a half-smile on her face as she stared across at her step-daughter being buffeted half-naked across the square. The bishop had barely shifted his gaze from the extraordinary sight, a noble being openly taunted by the commoners, her dignity shredded.
There was a gasp and a roar and Osbert saw that Isabel had stumbled. There were shouts as the guards pulled her to her feet, and he realised that, for a moment at least, her arms must have come away from her chest, offering a close-up view of her breasts to those lucky enough to be near her. He saw that lithe body wriggling as she pulled her arms down and across herself and he saw one of the guards give her a rough shove that nearly sent her down again. He couldn’t wait any longer. Taking up his basket carefully, he set off round the edge of the square.
*
Isabel’s cheeks burned with shame. Her back was hurting dreadfully, the muscles stiff and sore, the skin raw and stinging. She was jockeyed and jostled, more spittle landed on her and she thought she might fall again, her numb feet struggling to find purchase on the frozen ground. Then, at last, they got to the low barrier designed to protect those in the stocks from the mob. The rules were clear: they could shout and spit and throw things, but nobody could pass that point. She stepped over it, shoved by the guards, arms still hooked across her chest. There were three shallow steps up and then the platform on which the stocks stood, the dark wood glistening with frost.
The guards hustled her around it. She couldn’t take her eyes off it, this symbol of shame. She thought of the baker and she thought of Mrs White. She thought of their humiliation and she knew she was about to undergo worse. They pushed her down onto the low bench. Her back roared in pain as the muscles adjusted to her new position, her buttocks chilled instantly by the frost through her britches. She glanced up and saw the mass of faces, crowding at the barrier, stretching back as far as she could see, most leering and gawping, none it seemed offering anything like sympathy. She hugged herself tighter, feeling how her nipples stood on end in the cold. The pain in her back was awful, the cold air seeming to make the sting worse. She saw the upper bar on the stocks being lifted, and guards seized her legs, yanking her bare calves forward and positioning her ankles in the shallow dips in the lower bar. The top bar was brought down, and her feet were trapped. This was it, then: two hours sitting there in the cold, naked to the waist, being laughed at. She watched as the clasp was fastened, locking the two halves of the stocks together. The guards backed away and the time of her shaming had officially begun. She looked up at the clockface on the cathedral: twenty to ten.
“Whore!” came a shout, and she turned her gaze back to the mob. They were massed behind the low barrier, the nearest no more than eight feet away, their faces stretching back across the square. Others took up the shout, and she saw spittle flying towards her, much of it falling short. She clutched herself tighter, carefully positioning her palms over her nipples. She shivered. It was bitterly cold. “Where’s her tits? She’s got nothing,” shouted an old woman, her eyes bulging with fury. What was wrong with these people? “She’s got two backs.” Isabel looked down at her feet, and vowed she would stare at her toes and count to 100 before lifting her eyes. She tried to block out the insults. She’d got to about 40 when something struck her painfully on the left shoulder, glancing off and striking the ground somewhere behind her with a damp splat.
She started and looked up, hearing the laughter of the crowd. Before her she saw Osbert, a broad grin on his bovine face. The mob had opened up around him and he stood proudly by the barrier, a basket in his left hand. His right arm was pulled back. She watched dumbly as he brought it forward and only at the last did she realise he was throwing something at her. Him! A noble. A dark shape flashed through the air. An egg. He was pelting her with eggs. She flinched, but far too late, and it hit the centre of her chest, just above her crossed arms.
She gasped with the shock then realised with horror that the egg had broken and was oozing between her breasts. Worse, it was rotten. The smell was terrible. She stared at it, the slime streaking down her pale chest, and collecting where her forearms were crossed over her breasts. There was nothing she could do. The only way of dislodging it was to move her arms, and that would expose her breasts. “Go on, clean it up!” came a shout.
“Lick it off!” came another.
“I’ll lick it off!” There were hoots of laughter.
A space opened around Osbert. She couldn’t believe she’d once kissed him, that for a couple of crazy weeks she’d wondered if she might marry him. She saw him, laughing with one of his friends, lay down the basket and take up another egg. How many did he have? The mob fell silent, waiting. He weighed the egg in his hand, raised it and- nothing. She flinched, ducking her head away, and the crowd roared with amusement as it realised he’d only dummied. Then he did throw it and it struck her, almost before she’d seen it, hard on the temple. For a moment she was stunned by the blow and then she realised the ooze was sliding down over her left eye. Slowly, carefully, adjusting her left arm, she raised her right hand to try to scoop the gunk away. There were roars and wolf-whistles. Could they see her? She realised the top of her left nipple might be visible. What could she do? She swept her right hand across her face, flicking the filth away, and then quickly hugged herself again. “Tie her hands behind her!” somebody shouted, “Tie her! Tie her!”
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
She should come out of this unmolested at least, but the missiles are well on target, and they havn't started with the horse (or worse) dung yet.
What else is allowed? Tying her hands behind her back will double the shame. What about wedging her mouth open so she has to swallow any foul direct hits?
And at the end of two hours? I don't imagine anyone will rush up with a cloak, a carriage and a nice cup of tea. Her shirt will have disappeared.
Boccaccio
Governor
I could do without the excrement, but over the years I've written one or two scenes in which produce became weaponized. Fallen apples, pears, plums etc are capable of imparting quite a sting if they are well thrown. Carrots, cucumbers, zucchinis (aka courgettes), and other types of squash (aka marrows) could be used in other ways if Isabel could be separated from her britches.
If humiliation more than pain is the object, rotten potatoes and onions rank high on my personal disgust-o-meter.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
The deacon had never imagined it might be this good. He could see the humiliation in her, the awful realisation dawning that for another hour and fifty five minutes she would be pelted with debris and that she had a choice of protecting herself or of hiding her tits. Osbert took up another egg, a look of lust and triumph on his face. The deacon could sense the crowd’s anticipation, their enjoyment of this battle as she held her arms across her chest and waited. Osbert teased her, dummying to throw a couple of times before finally releasing it. He threw hard and flat, aiming for her face. She ducked, offering a glimpse of her shallow cleavage as she bent forwards, and the egg smacked against the top of her head, leaving fragments of shell and a splodge of yolk nestled in her hair. She sat up again, fury and pain written in her face and the mob roared with laughter, egg dripping from her hair.
Somebody spat, the spittle tracing a lazy parabola but falling a few feet short of her. The taunts were constant.
“Whore!”
“Slut!”
“Bitch!”
“No tits!”
“Lady Twobacks.”
“Isabel, flat as hell!”
There was laughter, a sense of carnival about the occasion. Here was a noblewoman stripped and humiliated and the realisation had grown that they could do what they wanted. There would be no comeback. The usual rules didn’t apply: that was no need for respect for a girl who’d been birched in front of them and was now fastened half-naked for their amusement. Osbert hurled another egg. She was slow to react this time and it hit her, hard, just above the left eye. She shouted in pain, jerking back, then gasping as the movement aggravated the sting of her back. The egg broke, the yolk sliding slowly over face then dropping onto the hook of her arms. She blinked desperately, fragments of shell and the traces of rotten egg dotted around her eye and streaking her cheek.
Something dark flew from her right and struck her cheek. She flinched and looked sharply in that direction. The deacon was struck by the proud jut of her jaw, the fire that still glimmered beneath her humiliation. He saw on the ground beside her a sphere of horse-shit. There was plenty of that around if they wanted to pelt her. There were hoots and whoops and a general scramble as the mob searched the ground for horseshit.
Osbert weighed the egg in his hand. She was shivering, clearly in significant pain and streaked with rotten egg. A dark smudge showed on her cheek where the shit had hit her. He waited. Another dark globe arced towards her, then another. He saw her look to dodge and, while she was distracted, threw the egg. She caught sight of it late and instinctively raised her arms to block it. It broke in her right wrist, but far more significant was that she’d exposed her breasts. All he’d seen was a quick glimpse of pink nipples, hard in the cold, but the mob roared and renewed its mockery.
“Lady No-tits!”
“Face this way!”
“Those aren’t tits: she’s just been bitten by two horseflies.”
Osbert laughed with the rest of them. She was crying now, the shame too much for her, and he enjoyed seeing her humiliated. The truth was her breasts weren’t that small. They weren’t huge dangling udders, but they had a delicacy and beauty on her slender frame. He would have loved to have fondled them, to have teased those nipples and caressed the soft warmth as they rose in shallow slopes from her chest. But that was what they were using to hurt her, so he was happy to join in.
“Lady two-backs,” he shouted, and they laughed because he was a noble, even though the joke had been made earlier.<p>
Somebody spat, the spittle tracing a lazy parabola but falling a few feet short of her. The taunts were constant.
“Whore!”
“Slut!”
“Bitch!”
“No tits!”
“Lady Twobacks.”
“Isabel, flat as hell!”
There was laughter, a sense of carnival about the occasion. Here was a noblewoman stripped and humiliated and the realisation had grown that they could do what they wanted. There would be no comeback. The usual rules didn’t apply: that was no need for respect for a girl who’d been birched in front of them and was now fastened half-naked for their amusement. Osbert hurled another egg. She was slow to react this time and it hit her, hard, just above the left eye. She shouted in pain, jerking back, then gasping as the movement aggravated the sting of her back. The egg broke, the yolk sliding slowly over face then dropping onto the hook of her arms. She blinked desperately, fragments of shell and the traces of rotten egg dotted around her eye and streaking her cheek.
Something dark flew from her right and struck her cheek. She flinched and looked sharply in that direction. The deacon was struck by the proud jut of her jaw, the fire that still glimmered beneath her humiliation. He saw on the ground beside her a sphere of horse-shit. There was plenty of that around if they wanted to pelt her. There were hoots and whoops and a general scramble as the mob searched the ground for horseshit.
Osbert weighed the egg in his hand. She was shivering, clearly in significant pain and streaked with rotten egg. A dark smudge showed on her cheek where the shit had hit her. He waited. Another dark globe arced towards her, then another. He saw her look to dodge and, while she was distracted, threw the egg. She caught sight of it late and instinctively raised her arms to block it. It broke in her right wrist, but far more significant was that she’d exposed her breasts. All he’d seen was a quick glimpse of pink nipples, hard in the cold, but the mob roared and renewed its mockery.
“Lady No-tits!”
“Face this way!”
“Those aren’t tits: she’s just been bitten by two horseflies.”
Osbert laughed with the rest of them. She was crying now, the shame too much for her, and he enjoyed seeing her humiliated. The truth was her breasts weren’t that small. They weren’t huge dangling udders, but they had a delicacy and beauty on her slender frame. He would have loved to have fondled them, to have teased those nipples and caressed the soft warmth as they rose in shallow slopes from her chest. But that was what they were using to hurt her, so he was happy to join in.
“Lady two-backs,” he shouted, and they laughed because he was a noble, even though the joke had been made earlier.<p>
Boccaccio
Governor
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Maude wished she could have got close, but the crowd was too thick. She sat on her horse at the back of the mob, 20 or 30 yards from her stepdaughter, who shivered pitifully, hugging a naked torso turned pink by the cold. Maude hadn’t expected this level of hostility. She’d thought there’d be enjoyment of Isabel’s nakedness, memories of which would undermine her in the future, but there was real hatred here. Maude had expected men to delight in Isabel’s shame, but there were plenty of women there as well, hurling abuse. Two plump red-faced women in particular seemed to be delighting in mocking her. Perhaps this was simple jealousy: two crones lashing out at a beautiful girl who’d been born with advantages they could only dream of. She’d been in the stocks for half an hour, during which time the barrage of taunts and insults hadn’t stopped, and she’d been pelted with rotten eggs and shit. She looked pathetic, her face ashen, hair limp and matted with filth. Her body was marked with splatters of shit, streaked with egg. Her dignity had gone.
She wondered if there was anything she should do to make it worse: have her hands tied behind her maybe to expose those delicate breasts – how good it was to hear the crowd laughing at them - or perhaps have her britches stripped from her, but she couldn’t think of a legal reason to do so and above all else she had to be seen to act within the law. And, anyway, the mob hadn’t let up. They were spitting now, competing to project their spittle far enough to hit her, the vast majority falling short. Every now and again, another handful of shit would be thrown.
*
Isabel was freezing. She hugged herself, tucking her hands between her breasts and her arms to try to warm them. Her toes throbbed with the cold, her back was stinging, and her body was covered with a layer of filth – shit and rotten vegetables and Osbert’s eggs. Her eyes felt puffy with crying and snot oozed from her nose, but she couldn’t wipe them for fear of exposing her breasts again. The mob were still roaring abuse at her, revelling in her pain and her shame. She knew the jokes about her flat chest would endure, that long after this was over they’d refer to her as Lady Twobacks. She suspected Osbert had put them up to it: it’s what he’d called her when she’d rejected him. Her breasts had grown since then, but they weren’t huge – and this had exposed how insecure she was about them. She knew she was and she knew it was ridiculous. Another ball of shit hit her left shoulder.
How long had gone? She stared at her toes. She’d focus on them again and count to 100: that would pass the time. But she’d barely got to thirty when a young boy suddenly darted beyond the barrier and skipped up the steps. She vaguely recognised him. He was the miller’s boy, she thought, eight or nine years old. The crowd fell quiet, waiting to see what he would do. The guards seemed uncertain how they should react. The boy stood in front of her, looking vacant, then he pointed at her and laughed. There was something about this act, this child taunting her, that made her humiliation seem all the worse. He walked up to stand beside her, seemingly unconcerned by the filth he was standing in. She held her arms tighter about her. Why weren’t they stopping him? He peered over her arms, clearly trying to see her breasts. Then he spat at her. She flinched instinctively as the spittle struck her cheek. “Go away,” she hissed and there was laughter from the crowd. The boy spat again. “Get away from me!” she shouted and the mob whooped. The boy walked behind her. She twisted and tried to see what he was doing but with her legs fastened it was hopeless. He grabbed her pony tail and pulled sharply. She shrieked, more in surprise than anything else, but then he twisted the hair in his hand and pulled harder. “Get off me!” she shouted, trying to shake him off, but he just pulled, lifting her off the low bench before dropping her. Isabel felt spasms of pain pass through her back, which he then touched, running his fingers over the welted skin. She gasped in pain, then he suddenly laughed and jabbed her in both ribs at the same time. She squirmed had lurched forward as he darted in front of her.
He stood over her, one foot planted each side of her thighs, a grin on his face. He grabbed her nose and held it, cutting off the flow of air. She glared at him, humiliated by her helplessness. He peered down, clearly trying to see beneath her arms to her breasts. She clutched herself tighter, and he twisted her nose, painfully. It was cold anyway and the action was surprisingly painful. Mucus oozed out into his fingers. He looked at them, disgusted, then wiped them clean on her hair. He spat in her face, giggled, and ran off. As soon as he’d gone, there was another volley of shit. She was caked in filth, her face streaked with tears. How long did she have left?
She wondered if there was anything she should do to make it worse: have her hands tied behind her maybe to expose those delicate breasts – how good it was to hear the crowd laughing at them - or perhaps have her britches stripped from her, but she couldn’t think of a legal reason to do so and above all else she had to be seen to act within the law. And, anyway, the mob hadn’t let up. They were spitting now, competing to project their spittle far enough to hit her, the vast majority falling short. Every now and again, another handful of shit would be thrown.
*
Isabel was freezing. She hugged herself, tucking her hands between her breasts and her arms to try to warm them. Her toes throbbed with the cold, her back was stinging, and her body was covered with a layer of filth – shit and rotten vegetables and Osbert’s eggs. Her eyes felt puffy with crying and snot oozed from her nose, but she couldn’t wipe them for fear of exposing her breasts again. The mob were still roaring abuse at her, revelling in her pain and her shame. She knew the jokes about her flat chest would endure, that long after this was over they’d refer to her as Lady Twobacks. She suspected Osbert had put them up to it: it’s what he’d called her when she’d rejected him. Her breasts had grown since then, but they weren’t huge – and this had exposed how insecure she was about them. She knew she was and she knew it was ridiculous. Another ball of shit hit her left shoulder.
How long had gone? She stared at her toes. She’d focus on them again and count to 100: that would pass the time. But she’d barely got to thirty when a young boy suddenly darted beyond the barrier and skipped up the steps. She vaguely recognised him. He was the miller’s boy, she thought, eight or nine years old. The crowd fell quiet, waiting to see what he would do. The guards seemed uncertain how they should react. The boy stood in front of her, looking vacant, then he pointed at her and laughed. There was something about this act, this child taunting her, that made her humiliation seem all the worse. He walked up to stand beside her, seemingly unconcerned by the filth he was standing in. She held her arms tighter about her. Why weren’t they stopping him? He peered over her arms, clearly trying to see her breasts. Then he spat at her. She flinched instinctively as the spittle struck her cheek. “Go away,” she hissed and there was laughter from the crowd. The boy spat again. “Get away from me!” she shouted and the mob whooped. The boy walked behind her. She twisted and tried to see what he was doing but with her legs fastened it was hopeless. He grabbed her pony tail and pulled sharply. She shrieked, more in surprise than anything else, but then he twisted the hair in his hand and pulled harder. “Get off me!” she shouted, trying to shake him off, but he just pulled, lifting her off the low bench before dropping her. Isabel felt spasms of pain pass through her back, which he then touched, running his fingers over the welted skin. She gasped in pain, then he suddenly laughed and jabbed her in both ribs at the same time. She squirmed had lurched forward as he darted in front of her.
He stood over her, one foot planted each side of her thighs, a grin on his face. He grabbed her nose and held it, cutting off the flow of air. She glared at him, humiliated by her helplessness. He peered down, clearly trying to see beneath her arms to her breasts. She clutched herself tighter, and he twisted her nose, painfully. It was cold anyway and the action was surprisingly painful. Mucus oozed out into his fingers. He looked at them, disgusted, then wiped them clean on her hair. He spat in her face, giggled, and ran off. As soon as he’d gone, there was another volley of shit. She was caked in filth, her face streaked with tears. How long did she have left?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Wat sat in the tavern. It was almost deserted, everybody outside enjoying the fun. What was wrong with them? Isabel had a heart; she cared about people. How could they not see that? But no. She was a pretty girl and a noble they could bully so they got their kicks from seeing her breasts and birching her and now they were relishing humiliating her. He couldn’t watch. He’d walked over in a daze after the flogging, unable to believe the fury and hostility of the crowd. What had she done to them?
He bought a beer and stood by the bar. There were three men next to him. “I never thought they’d let us see her tits,” one said.
“Not much to see,” said another. They laughed.
“Enough, though,” said the third. “Thin body like that you don’t want huge ones. That waist of hers. I’d like to get my arms round that.”
“They’re pert,” said the first one, “I’ll give you that. Those pink nipples standing up in the cold…”
Wat could hardly bear to listen.
“Have you been over to see her in the stocks?” the third asked.
“Yes,” the first replied. “But she’s covering herself up. And she’s too far away to spit at. The kids are throwing horseshit at her, but we want something that’ll really show her she’s scum.”
From the other corner of the bar, a voice spoke up. “Take the spittoon.”
“Nah, Dick,” said the barman, “They’d never let you.”
“Wouldn’t they?” Dick said thoughtfully. “They’ve kept her half-naked this long. I reckon they want to shame her.”
Wat knew the truth of what he was saying. There was something going on: nobles out to get his lady. The three men encouraged Dick. He finished his pint and slammed the tankard down. He strode over to the spittoon where it stood by the bar and, with some effort, picked it up. Wat couldn’t believe what was happening. The spittoon was about three feet deep and six inches in diameter, a vessel that hadn’t been emptied in who knew how long. It reeked. One of the men helped Dick, staggering outside with it. Wat heard the shouts of the mob as they realised what was happening, shouts of excitement and laughter. He cringed for his lady.
He bought a beer and stood by the bar. There were three men next to him. “I never thought they’d let us see her tits,” one said.
“Not much to see,” said another. They laughed.
“Enough, though,” said the third. “Thin body like that you don’t want huge ones. That waist of hers. I’d like to get my arms round that.”
“They’re pert,” said the first one, “I’ll give you that. Those pink nipples standing up in the cold…”
Wat could hardly bear to listen.
“Have you been over to see her in the stocks?” the third asked.
“Yes,” the first replied. “But she’s covering herself up. And she’s too far away to spit at. The kids are throwing horseshit at her, but we want something that’ll really show her she’s scum.”
From the other corner of the bar, a voice spoke up. “Take the spittoon.”
“Nah, Dick,” said the barman, “They’d never let you.”
“Wouldn’t they?” Dick said thoughtfully. “They’ve kept her half-naked this long. I reckon they want to shame her.”
Wat knew the truth of what he was saying. There was something going on: nobles out to get his lady. The three men encouraged Dick. He finished his pint and slammed the tankard down. He strode over to the spittoon where it stood by the bar and, with some effort, picked it up. Wat couldn’t believe what was happening. The spittoon was about three feet deep and six inches in diameter, a vessel that hadn’t been emptied in who knew how long. It reeked. One of the men helped Dick, staggering outside with it. Wat heard the shouts of the mob as they realised what was happening, shouts of excitement and laughter. He cringed for his lady.
Boris Spider
Guard
Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear...
King Diocletian
Magistrate
The spittoon was heavier than Dick had thought but he and the drinker from the pub managed to manoeuvre it across the square. When the mob saw what it was, they stepped back and cheered. By the time they reached the railing, Lady Isabel was staring at them. Good, Dick thought, let the bitch see what was coming. The guards stopped them, but the roars of the crowd persuaded Sir Thomas he had to let them through. Dick was fascinated by her. Up close, he saw just how smooth her skin was, just how pure its silk-like texture. She was startlingly beautiful, the dark eyes staring resentfully at him over those immaculate cheekbones. Her fear was obvious as she cowered away from him. They walked behind her and he saw the damage the birch had done to her back, the welts and cuts stretching from her shoulders to her waist. He peered over her shoulders trying to catch a glimpse of her breasts, but her arms were held tight across her chest. She glanced up at him and he was struck by the intensity of her gaze and by the fear and shame he saw there. They raised the spittoon carefully, the crowd falling silent as they watched. Slowly they tipped. At first a dribble came out, a wash of beer and wine, the stench of stale alcohol revolting. It fell onto her hair, fine but already caked in eggs and shit. As they poured, her head was soon soaked and it began to run down her face. As she arched her back, Dick could almost sense her disgust. And then there came, quite suddenly, a scream. He checked, instinctively, and realised the alcohol was stinging the raw wounds of her back. After the initial shout, she gritted her teeth, but the tension in the muscles of her neck showed her distress. He laughed and raised the base of the spittoon again.
A little more stale wine dripped out. Some pooled on her forearms as she crossed them over her chest. He could see her breathing quicken with the pain. And then, quite suddenly, in one great lump, a ball of mucus fell from the spittoon. Dick had no idea how long it must have taken for that much to accumulate, but it was foul; a great globule of the spit of men over a period of weeks, maybe months, stained red with wine. It fell on her head, and spread, clinging to her, holding her hair flat to her scalp and slowly oozing over her face. It began to drip into her eyes. Disgusted, she shook her head, but she couldn’t dislodge it. There were whoops and jeers. She blinked desperately and then, bowing to the inevitable, she raised her right had to try to scoop it away from her eyes. A little more of her right breast was revealed and the mob roared. She tried desperately to stop herself from crying. She clenched her teeth. It was no good. She had to use both hands. She would do it quickly. She screwed up her eyes and then, suddenly, lifted her hands, scraping the filth from her face, sweeping up and over her forehead to her hair. There were wolf-whistles and cheers and she could feel her heart beating faster at the shame.<
“Where are they? I can’t see them,” came a shout and there was more laughter.
“That wasn’t worth the wait,” yelled somebody else.
“Isabel, flat as hell…” somebody else called. There was laughter and the chant was taken up. Her breasts had been visible perhaps two seconds. She moved to drop her hands again, but she suddenly found them caught. She shouted but the only response was laughter. The bastard who had tipped the spittoon over her head had grabbed her wrists and he now held them above her head, so her chest was exposed.
*
The bishop took a deep draught of wine. He stood in a first-storey chamber a few yards to the left of Isabel, far enough back from the window that he hoped he couldn’t be seen. Behind him Maude and Sir Thomas chatted, as though this were some kind of social event. He didn’t approve of some oaf humiliating her like that, of course, and yet he couldn’t deny that her shame was part of the punishment. He stared at the soft curve of her left breast, the nipple hard and red in the cold. She fought with the oaf and freed her arms, rapidly wrapping her arms around herself as the temple guards finally ordered her tormentor away. As he went, he paused, leant close and from no more than a foot away, spat in her face. As he trotted down the steps he was received with great cheers. The bishop resumed his contemplation of her, back red and scored with scratches, her hair covered with mucus, her pure skin pale and pinkened by the cold, stained with filth and the dregs of the wine.
She was sobbing. Good. The whole point that this was a lesson she wouldn’t forget. She wouldn’t be so keen to start making a scene in the future. He saw something fly over her head and smash into the wall behind her, sending up a spray of pulp. It was, he realised, an apple. Somebody had brought a barrel of rotting fruit and was gleefully handing out apples to pelt her with. She lowered her head, but she could do nothing to prevent an apple hitting her square on the shoulder. She shouted in pain as in splatted into her cold skin. Another struck her ear as she turned away.
There was no escape. She howled as the fruit pounded her, still hugging herself desperately. Keeping her breasts covered, though, did little to alter her humiliation, defenceless, cold, unable to protect herself.
A little more stale wine dripped out. Some pooled on her forearms as she crossed them over her chest. He could see her breathing quicken with the pain. And then, quite suddenly, in one great lump, a ball of mucus fell from the spittoon. Dick had no idea how long it must have taken for that much to accumulate, but it was foul; a great globule of the spit of men over a period of weeks, maybe months, stained red with wine. It fell on her head, and spread, clinging to her, holding her hair flat to her scalp and slowly oozing over her face. It began to drip into her eyes. Disgusted, she shook her head, but she couldn’t dislodge it. There were whoops and jeers. She blinked desperately and then, bowing to the inevitable, she raised her right had to try to scoop it away from her eyes. A little more of her right breast was revealed and the mob roared. She tried desperately to stop herself from crying. She clenched her teeth. It was no good. She had to use both hands. She would do it quickly. She screwed up her eyes and then, suddenly, lifted her hands, scraping the filth from her face, sweeping up and over her forehead to her hair. There were wolf-whistles and cheers and she could feel her heart beating faster at the shame.<
“Where are they? I can’t see them,” came a shout and there was more laughter.
“That wasn’t worth the wait,” yelled somebody else.
“Isabel, flat as hell…” somebody else called. There was laughter and the chant was taken up. Her breasts had been visible perhaps two seconds. She moved to drop her hands again, but she suddenly found them caught. She shouted but the only response was laughter. The bastard who had tipped the spittoon over her head had grabbed her wrists and he now held them above her head, so her chest was exposed.
*
The bishop took a deep draught of wine. He stood in a first-storey chamber a few yards to the left of Isabel, far enough back from the window that he hoped he couldn’t be seen. Behind him Maude and Sir Thomas chatted, as though this were some kind of social event. He didn’t approve of some oaf humiliating her like that, of course, and yet he couldn’t deny that her shame was part of the punishment. He stared at the soft curve of her left breast, the nipple hard and red in the cold. She fought with the oaf and freed her arms, rapidly wrapping her arms around herself as the temple guards finally ordered her tormentor away. As he went, he paused, leant close and from no more than a foot away, spat in her face. As he trotted down the steps he was received with great cheers. The bishop resumed his contemplation of her, back red and scored with scratches, her hair covered with mucus, her pure skin pale and pinkened by the cold, stained with filth and the dregs of the wine.
She was sobbing. Good. The whole point that this was a lesson she wouldn’t forget. She wouldn’t be so keen to start making a scene in the future. He saw something fly over her head and smash into the wall behind her, sending up a spray of pulp. It was, he realised, an apple. Somebody had brought a barrel of rotting fruit and was gleefully handing out apples to pelt her with. She lowered her head, but she could do nothing to prevent an apple hitting her square on the shoulder. She shouted in pain as in splatted into her cold skin. Another struck her ear as she turned away.
There was no escape. She howled as the fruit pounded her, still hugging herself desperately. Keeping her breasts covered, though, did little to alter her humiliation, defenceless, cold, unable to protect herself.
Boccaccio
Governor
I honestly could have easily done without the excrement and the spittoon; this beautiful creature has to be a disgusting mess at this point.
But the apples, I like. Lady Isabel's pert little breasts have been out of harm's way for far too long if you ask me.
A barrel, you say? Fire away, folks!
But the apples, I like. Lady Isabel's pert little breasts have been out of harm's way for far too long if you ask me.
A barrel, you say? Fire away, folks!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Simon stamped his feet, trying to get the blood flowing through them again. She must be freezing, he realised, half naked up there, soaked in wine and spittle. The barrage of fruit had ended, leaving her body covered in sticky residue. She was shaking violently, head bowed, the image of abjection. She had a little under half an hour of the two hours remaining. The hostility of the crowd had waned and they seemed to have run out of things to throw. He edged closer to the barrier. A couple of children, no more than six or seven years old, kept up a barrage of mud and shit, much of it not even reaching her. A boy of maybe fifteen was shouting insults at her constantly, a look of mad concentration on his face. “Whore! Bitch! Slut! No tits! No tits! Whore!’
He gazed at her, hair clinging to her head, arms crossed over her breasts, her torso pink with cold and stained with filth, the marks of the birch clear on her rounded shoulders as she huddled, shivering pitifully. Her head was bowed, eyes closed. What a delicate, pretty creature she was. He doubted he’d ever see her again after this. Surely she’d leave, go into exile, away from those who had witnessed her shame?
There was movement, a hubbub in the crowd, and Simon saw two members of the temple guard forcing their way through. Each held a bucket, water slopping out. What fresh torment was this?
*
Sir Thomas looked on. He, the bishop, Lady Maude and various other worthies had retired to a room in the bishop’s quarters from which they could look out on Isabel’s suffering. A fire roared in the grate and they’d all been served mulled wine. For a time they’d ignored Isabel’s fate, but then the deacon had come in and, in that ingratiating way of his, suggested that the people were becoming restive, that the spectacle of a noblewoman stripped to the waist for them to gawp at wasn’t holding the attention any more.
He wasn’t, frankly, all that bothered. She had less than half an hour left and had surely learned her lesson. He’d glanced out of the window. Isabel was shaking, covered in filth. She looked as abject as anyone could. But it had been true that the mob had seemed less hostile to her and so when the deacon had suggested dousing her in cold water so that the dirt couldn’t hide her shame, he’d agreed. The point was to make the people despise her, to make her a ridiculous creature in their eyes so they would never respect her and if a little more discomfort helped that process along all well and good.
The lady Maude and the bishop came to join him by the window. Two of the temple guard walked smartly up the steps to where Isabel huddled in the stocks. They saw her beg, shaking her head as she realised what was about to happen. The hubbub of the crowd died as they saw there was more entertainment. Then there were cheers of encouragement. Sir Thomas saw two desperately ugly fat women laughing uproariously, shouting and pointing at Isabel’s fear. The first guard stood behind her and raised up the bucket. The roars grew louder and louder. He tipped, gently at first, and the water fell in a single steady stream onto the matted hair that clung to her scalp.
*
Isabel shrieked, hugging herself tighter as the water splashed over her. It was so cold it seemed almost to burn, sluicing some of the filth off her, but bringing no comfort. She heard laughter and jeers.
“Wash the whore!”
“Let me scrub her!”
“Her ladyship’s having a bath.”
But the pain was awful. Her back throbbed and the cold seemed to cause her head to ache. The water soaked her britches, on and on the stream came and, when the first bucket was over, the second guard stepped forward and emptied his over her. Her teeth chattered, her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounded. She let out a long wail, her head dropping. She just wanted to curl up into a ball, but a guard grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to sit upright. It sent spasms of pain through her back and she yelped. There was laughter and then, as though cleaning her had re-awakened the cruelty of the mob, they began pelting her again with shit and rotten vegetables. Exhausted, freezing, Isabel hugged herself, not even bothering to defend herself as ancient turnips splattered against her, stinging sharply. She cried, desperately cold, tears and water dripping off her nose end. There was more shit, more eggs, some foul-smelling entrails. She saw a fat woman with broken teeth laughing uproariously, calling her a whore. She didn’t understand their anger: what had she done to them?
He gazed at her, hair clinging to her head, arms crossed over her breasts, her torso pink with cold and stained with filth, the marks of the birch clear on her rounded shoulders as she huddled, shivering pitifully. Her head was bowed, eyes closed. What a delicate, pretty creature she was. He doubted he’d ever see her again after this. Surely she’d leave, go into exile, away from those who had witnessed her shame?
There was movement, a hubbub in the crowd, and Simon saw two members of the temple guard forcing their way through. Each held a bucket, water slopping out. What fresh torment was this?
*
Sir Thomas looked on. He, the bishop, Lady Maude and various other worthies had retired to a room in the bishop’s quarters from which they could look out on Isabel’s suffering. A fire roared in the grate and they’d all been served mulled wine. For a time they’d ignored Isabel’s fate, but then the deacon had come in and, in that ingratiating way of his, suggested that the people were becoming restive, that the spectacle of a noblewoman stripped to the waist for them to gawp at wasn’t holding the attention any more.
He wasn’t, frankly, all that bothered. She had less than half an hour left and had surely learned her lesson. He’d glanced out of the window. Isabel was shaking, covered in filth. She looked as abject as anyone could. But it had been true that the mob had seemed less hostile to her and so when the deacon had suggested dousing her in cold water so that the dirt couldn’t hide her shame, he’d agreed. The point was to make the people despise her, to make her a ridiculous creature in their eyes so they would never respect her and if a little more discomfort helped that process along all well and good.
The lady Maude and the bishop came to join him by the window. Two of the temple guard walked smartly up the steps to where Isabel huddled in the stocks. They saw her beg, shaking her head as she realised what was about to happen. The hubbub of the crowd died as they saw there was more entertainment. Then there were cheers of encouragement. Sir Thomas saw two desperately ugly fat women laughing uproariously, shouting and pointing at Isabel’s fear. The first guard stood behind her and raised up the bucket. The roars grew louder and louder. He tipped, gently at first, and the water fell in a single steady stream onto the matted hair that clung to her scalp.
*
Isabel shrieked, hugging herself tighter as the water splashed over her. It was so cold it seemed almost to burn, sluicing some of the filth off her, but bringing no comfort. She heard laughter and jeers.
“Wash the whore!”
“Let me scrub her!”
“Her ladyship’s having a bath.”
But the pain was awful. Her back throbbed and the cold seemed to cause her head to ache. The water soaked her britches, on and on the stream came and, when the first bucket was over, the second guard stepped forward and emptied his over her. Her teeth chattered, her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounded. She let out a long wail, her head dropping. She just wanted to curl up into a ball, but a guard grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to sit upright. It sent spasms of pain through her back and she yelped. There was laughter and then, as though cleaning her had re-awakened the cruelty of the mob, they began pelting her again with shit and rotten vegetables. Exhausted, freezing, Isabel hugged herself, not even bothering to defend herself as ancient turnips splattered against her, stinging sharply. She cried, desperately cold, tears and water dripping off her nose end. There was more shit, more eggs, some foul-smelling entrails. She saw a fat woman with broken teeth laughing uproariously, calling her a whore. She didn’t understand their anger: what had she done to them?
