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Confession
- Thread starter darkside99
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Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Dawn and the interrogator sits at table in the still-darkened inn waiting for some bread and ale to break his fast. He is alone, no one comes near him. It is always this way.
He and his ilk perform their duty to the townsfolk, to the church, to the country but get no thanks. A soldier does his duty and is lauded for his service. He does his and is reviled. He performs the tasks that others will not, cannot, do. Torture another human being, mete out their punishment with brand, whip or scourge, execute them with rope, axe or fire. He is paid in blood-soaked coin, nothing more.
He knows that they will watch, cheer, laugh, even become aroused as he scourges Barbara Moore in her punishment but they will not associate with him publically or even privately. He is as bound as his victim in a different world to theirs.
His coarse food eaten, he goes to leave the inn but stops at the lavish table where the red-robed Cardinal dines with his priests. The churchmen look up at his rough, lined face.
"Your Emminence, what of the woman? She has confessed despite innocence and wears the heretic's brand. She is shamed, she will be outcast. She will probably die from infection anyway. Is that not enough?"
The hawk's dark eyes glare at him. "No. It is not. There are rumblings of dissent in this town. The will and the power of the church must be upheld and stamped on this place. She will be the example of the price of dissent!"
One more question, this time to them all, "and will no one make a gift to the church for her life?" But all in the inn bow their heads, staring blindly at the bread, meat and ale on the tables.
"What of her family? Her father?" The hawk glares at him again. "He would not dare if he hopes to keep his keep his own life!"
Then final words from the Cardinal. "Her scourging and execution is delayed until the Sabbath, when the whole town will be gathered after Mass. Two more days. Make sure she stays alive!"
The rough man nods, accepting the final verdict.
He gathers some bread, a small flask of wine and heads to the cold cell under the church.
Barbara's head turns at the sound of the bolt sliding back and her eyes follow him as he brings the food and wine to her. He crouches beside her. "Here, eat, drink. It will help."
As he rises she grasps the rough cloth of his leggings and looks up at him, eyes pleading, her lips parted. "Is there no hope? Will my father not make a gift for my life?" He shakes his head. "Is there nothing I can do? Nothing I can offer you to help me?" And she buries her face against his groin.
He feels some warmth, a closeness, but, despite his desire for comfort, companionship, he twines his calloused fingers in her hair and pulls her head away. Again he shakes his head then re-arranges the old cloak over her naked body. "I will bring more food at the end of day."
Then he turns away and leaves Barbara alone.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
For two days he has visited her cell in the dawn and at dusk bring some food, a flask of wine and some herbs to try to limit the fever that was developing. He would not unchain her but he would clean her as best he could. He had been told to keep her alive and he will do his best.
When she knew there was no hope she had asked just one question. "When?" He answer was curt, "the Sabbath." No response. Barbara knew that she was doomed. She had accepted her approaching death. It was the suffering she feared and, despite the tenderness he showed, she feared him too.
Barbara woke to the toll of bells, the murmuring of voices as the townspeople trooped to mass. More of them this morning. Is it the threat they will be suspected heretic themselves or the prospect of watching Barbara scourged and then taken to the stake?
She can hear the drone of the Latin mass in the church above. She knows the rituals by heart, knows how little time she has. Then she hears the bells again and knows he is coming. She closes her eyes and prays. The bolt slides back, the cell door creaks loudly and she feels his rough hands on her wrists and ankles as he checks her manacles then unbolts the chains from the wall.
He lifts Barbara to her feet and pushes her towards the stairs that lead up to the church. She is weak, sick now, and he has to almost carry her. She screws her eyes tight against the bright morning light and then hears the jeers from the crowd when her naked body is pushed into entry to the square.
He stops her there and chains her wrists to the frame above the gate. She sags in her bonds, kneeling on the flagstones.
Behind her, out of her sight, Barbara can hear the harsh voice of the Cardinal. "Barbara Moore, you have confessed to the sin of heresy and have been branded with its mark. You will now be scourged to expunge your sin. 39 strokes, just as our church believes Jesus endured, in three lots each of thirteen."
"Thirteen on your back, thirteen on your arse as you hand there. Then you will be bound with your back to the post for the final thirteen." And he nods to her interroagtor, the man who will now scourge her, "begin!"
And he steps behind her with the viscious scourge. A short wooden rod for a handle, nine tails each with three or four rough knots tied along its length. Tails that will leave their red welts but knots that will rip her flesh. It has been soaking in a bucket of brine.
He raises his strong right aram and begins a regular beat. 1, 2, 3, 4. Strokes hard on Barbara's back, raking downwards. She writhes with each, trying to choke off screams with little effect. 5, 6, 7, 8. Skin broken now, lines of blood seeping through the welts. Body writing at each, screams louder, agonised. The crowd cheered at eqch of the first strokes but are soon hushed at the brutality. 9, 10, 11, 12. Blood running down her back now, splashes of blood and her sweat with each stroke, writhing weaker now, sobbing. 13. And she hangs limp.
He drapes the scourge's tails into the bucket then cups her chin in his hand and lifts her face, assessing her strength. He nods to the Cardinal. "She can continue."
The thirteen on her arse are brutal, in quick succession. Blood that has run down from her torn back flies off at each stroke. Her the skin stretched over her firm, tight buttocks splits quickly and blood runs down her legs. She screams at the first few strokes but the screams fade to wracking sobs. The crowd watch in silence, a few groan at each slash across Barbara's arse.
He leaves her to hang there on the frame for a few minutes. The crowd watch her limp form. They had expected some sport but are shocked at simple brutal punishment. Then, as she recovers a little, he releases the chains that hold her to the frame and drags her across to a post. She is left and he ties ropes tightly around her arms to hold her upright, her torn back and arse hard against the rough wood.
No more respite for Barbara now. Just thirteen brutal slashes across her breasts and he belly. She screams as the first few rip the soft skin of her breasts but the screams quickly become those same wracking sobs as the slashes mark her belly then the fronts of her thighs. Her head falls foward but the tight ropes hold her upright.
Three lots of thirteen. Done now. Her head still slumped forward. Barely conscious.
He rinses her blood and sweat from the scourge in the bucket of brine then throws the contents in her face. Her head jolts back and she screams as the salty water runs down across her torn breasts and belly.
She shakes her head to clear the water from her eyes and, in the distance, she can see another rough wooden post planted firmly in the earth just outside the square. Bundles of brush are stacked at the foot of the post and there are more nearby.
When she knew there was no hope she had asked just one question. "When?" He answer was curt, "the Sabbath." No response. Barbara knew that she was doomed. She had accepted her approaching death. It was the suffering she feared and, despite the tenderness he showed, she feared him too.
Barbara woke to the toll of bells, the murmuring of voices as the townspeople trooped to mass. More of them this morning. Is it the threat they will be suspected heretic themselves or the prospect of watching Barbara scourged and then taken to the stake?
She can hear the drone of the Latin mass in the church above. She knows the rituals by heart, knows how little time she has. Then she hears the bells again and knows he is coming. She closes her eyes and prays. The bolt slides back, the cell door creaks loudly and she feels his rough hands on her wrists and ankles as he checks her manacles then unbolts the chains from the wall.
He lifts Barbara to her feet and pushes her towards the stairs that lead up to the church. She is weak, sick now, and he has to almost carry her. She screws her eyes tight against the bright morning light and then hears the jeers from the crowd when her naked body is pushed into entry to the square.
He stops her there and chains her wrists to the frame above the gate. She sags in her bonds, kneeling on the flagstones.
Behind her, out of her sight, Barbara can hear the harsh voice of the Cardinal. "Barbara Moore, you have confessed to the sin of heresy and have been branded with its mark. You will now be scourged to expunge your sin. 39 strokes, just as our church believes Jesus endured, in three lots each of thirteen."
"Thirteen on your back, thirteen on your arse as you hand there. Then you will be bound with your back to the post for the final thirteen." And he nods to her interroagtor, the man who will now scourge her, "begin!"
And he steps behind her with the viscious scourge. A short wooden rod for a handle, nine tails each with three or four rough knots tied along its length. Tails that will leave their red welts but knots that will rip her flesh. It has been soaking in a bucket of brine.
He raises his strong right aram and begins a regular beat. 1, 2, 3, 4. Strokes hard on Barbara's back, raking downwards. She writhes with each, trying to choke off screams with little effect. 5, 6, 7, 8. Skin broken now, lines of blood seeping through the welts. Body writing at each, screams louder, agonised. The crowd cheered at eqch of the first strokes but are soon hushed at the brutality. 9, 10, 11, 12. Blood running down her back now, splashes of blood and her sweat with each stroke, writhing weaker now, sobbing. 13. And she hangs limp.
He drapes the scourge's tails into the bucket then cups her chin in his hand and lifts her face, assessing her strength. He nods to the Cardinal. "She can continue."
The thirteen on her arse are brutal, in quick succession. Blood that has run down from her torn back flies off at each stroke. Her the skin stretched over her firm, tight buttocks splits quickly and blood runs down her legs. She screams at the first few strokes but the screams fade to wracking sobs. The crowd watch in silence, a few groan at each slash across Barbara's arse.
He leaves her to hang there on the frame for a few minutes. The crowd watch her limp form. They had expected some sport but are shocked at simple brutal punishment. Then, as she recovers a little, he releases the chains that hold her to the frame and drags her across to a post. She is left and he ties ropes tightly around her arms to hold her upright, her torn back and arse hard against the rough wood.
No more respite for Barbara now. Just thirteen brutal slashes across her breasts and he belly. She screams as the first few rip the soft skin of her breasts but the screams quickly become those same wracking sobs as the slashes mark her belly then the fronts of her thighs. Her head falls foward but the tight ropes hold her upright.
Three lots of thirteen. Done now. Her head still slumped forward. Barely conscious.
He rinses her blood and sweat from the scourge in the bucket of brine then throws the contents in her face. Her head jolts back and she screams as the salty water runs down across her torn breasts and belly.
She shakes her head to clear the water from her eyes and, in the distance, she can see another rough wooden post planted firmly in the earth just outside the square. Bundles of brush are stacked at the foot of the post and there are more nearby.
What can I say. The sabbath has been anything but good to me. Thirty-nine lashes ... on my poor back, buttocks and front ... all expertly delivered. He may have showed me tenderness in my cell, but out here in front of the crowd and serving the hated Cardinal, he is all business. The whipping was bad enough ... I don't know how I could have taken any more ... slipping in and out of consciousness by the end ... barely even aware of the crowd that had gathered to witness my final humiliation and punishment before my execution ... but now the bucket of brine .... no one can imagine how much the salty water hurts as it seeps into my myriad cuts and abrasions ... ever nerve is on fire. But as I shake my head, clear my eyes and focus on the waiting rough wooden post and stacked bundles of brush, I am overcome with terror and began to wretch uncontrollably, ultimately losing the contents of my stomach all over the red slippers of the Cardinal who has come forward to examine my battered body. He says something most unholy, and orders me carried to the post.
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...it's not nice to puke on the Cardinal...
...bring out the 'green wood'... it burns slower...
...bring out the 'green wood'... it burns slower...
This
was a nice touch, Barb! Those shoes will stink of vomit forever! At least he won't forget you!
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
The danger with green wood is the smoke. We don't want the view obscured now, do we?
It's probably not good for her lungs either... but do we care???
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Depends wheter we want the smoke of the flames to do the job.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Two of the townsmen come forward to follow the Cardinal’s order but the rough man, the interrogator who had become her comfort and her tormentor and, now, her executioner, waves them away. With one strong arm under her breasts he supports Barbara’s battered body while he unties the ropes that bind her wrists to the whipping post. Freed from the post’s support she slumps against him, unable to stand, the blood from her slashed flesh seeping into his coarse woven shirt. She is weak from the damage that has been inflicted on her body, from the infection that has begun to rage through her torn bowels. The vicious scourging has added its toll.
He throws a rough piece of cloth over her shoulders and half carries Barbara to the post set beyond the square. He lifts her onto the first faggots stacked at the foot of the post and uses his knee in her crotch to support her weight, his shoulder against her breasts to hold her body upright as he manacles her hands to the post behind her. His hands force her legs and ankles back to the post and manacles again hold her firm. Iron manacles, iron that will hold her upright, no rope that will burn and drop her into the flames.
He strips away the rough cloth, her last covering, and uses rope to bind her legs to the post. Rope, too around her waist then a chain around the post, over her shoulder, crossed between her breasts and back around the post. Nothing left to chance. Finally he ties a rope around her throat, close under her chin, and her head is held up. She cannot hide her face from the watching crowd. The man checks the torch that burns just beyond the piled faggots, the dirty black smoke from the suet-soaked wrapping is blowing away from the woman, away from the crowd. No smoke from the fire should obscure their view of her terrible death.
He looks to the Cardinal, watching for the sign to proceed. Oddly he notices how filthy the churchman’s robes now seem, the soiled red slippers covered by the dirt and dust that has coated the woman’s vomit. Her final gift to the Church she followed that has now forsaken her? Then his thoughts are broken by a single nod of the dark, hawk-like head.
It is time. He cannot delay. He takes the burning torch and lights the faggots. As flames rise and the wood begins to crackle he can see the panic, the terror, grow in her eyes.
There is heat now, close to her legs, shimmering air rising around her body, her face. He watches as she tries to draw herself away from the flames but she cannot move from where she is bound to the post. The fire is still low and the flames lick closer to her legs. She is sobbing as they touch her legs, scorching her flesh, blistering. But no screams, not yet. She seems determined to hold back. Not to entertain.
His eyes are drawn to hers and he can see her plea.
His eyes leave hers and search the piled wood. He finds what he needs. A faggot of greener timber. He hefts that faggot and adds it to the flames, close in front of her. As the green wood catches flame there is smoke, thick smoke and, for a moment, it screens her from the watching crowd. It takes but a few seconds. His strong hand twines the rope holding her head up and he twists. Quickly, strongly. A garrotte. Above the crackling of the fire he hears her sigh. Relief at last from her suffering. And her body is limp.
As the smoke clears the crowd sees the flames rise, burning her, blackening her.
The ropes burn and her head falls forward but the chains still hold her upright, fixed to the post. But still no screams from her lips. Not even as the flames claim her long dark hair. Consuming her. They feel cheated but wonder at her bravery. They do not know that he has granted her release.
The red-robed Cardinal watches her burn. He had wanted her father’s lands for the church. Wanted to add the wealth for his own glory. She was his vengeance, make her suffer, have her world hear her scream as she died. He savoured her suffering at the hands of the rough man. But she has cheated him of his final pleasure. His ultimate revenge.
There is nothing to watch now but her cremation. The crowd disperses. The Cardinal turns away and will take a long lunch in the inn, his table ladened with bread, meat and wine. Sycophants surrounding him. Her executioner will be left alone, shunned as he always is.
Alone beside her pyre her executioner carefully rakes the coals and embers, making sure nothing remains. When it is all done he takes a shovel and spreads the ashes, carefully, mixed with the earth in the woods.
No signs left of her. Barbara’s ashes mixed with those of the wood that consumed her.
Since I am dead ... burned to a crisp actually ... I cannot reply in character to this episode. So instead I will just comment.
Kudos to Pp for the wonderfully skillful, evocative writing, and the lovely gray-scale illustrations that illuminate the text. Wow, wow and wow Pp. This was exceptionally well done and should be archived.
Raspberries to the Cardinal. So glad his red shoes and cloak are soiled. Can't think of anyone I would rather vomit on than that scoundrel.
Boos also to the townsfolk who did nothing to save me, and who seemed to enjoy my torture and suffering so much. I hope they all roast in Hell someday and come to know what the flames feel like themselves.
So ashes to ashes .... oh never mind ... I am not going there now.
FINIS 2015
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
that part was really done well, wasn't it?
Indeed it was, it made the rest more real. He became the central point.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Thanks Barb. I never know when a simple post by someone in cf might stimulate my imagination so my thanks to Darkside for the post that started this. I wanted to do more than throw in some simple, one line responses, to try to explore what it might have been like.
But, as always, my thanks to you as a willing subject and victim. Your insightful comments from the victim's perspective add that special extra dimension.
And my thanks, too, for the encouragement provide by others who take the time to read, to comment, or just to like.
Pp
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Primus pilus
Magister Australis
that part was really done well, wasn't it?
Thanks. Pp blushes. It didn't start out that way and wasn't in my mind to begin with. That just seemed to develop as the story progressed.
You just left one thing out, Barb....
Wow, wow and wow Barb and Pp.
This was an exceptionally good partnership between the two of you - some of the best writing I've seen on Cf.
But that last post by Pp of the burning was so very moving - beautifully done, Sir! It's rare on here that I need a tissue for lachrymosal reasons!
You have both produced a cruxforums classic here.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Just on the off chance that someone would like to read the musings of Pp and Barbaria's responses their writings with the side discussions removed are attached as a pdf file.
The images are quite small. When Pp has time he will redo this with better-sized images included.
The images are quite small. When Pp has time he will redo this with better-sized images included.