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Eulalia - The Thief Of Medesham
- Thread starter ronniebegoode
- Start date
I may say, for this particular episode, Ronnie went to considerable lengths to get the details of Anglo-Saxon marriage laws right.
But, in the end, the law could only be enforced if the woman had kinsfolk willing to stand up for her, and poor Hwita hasn't -
still less, of course, Eulalia/Aelf, the 'wealh' - the word once just meant 'foreigner', but came to mean both a slave and a Welsh person
(which was one and the same). 'Welsh' is from the Saxon 'wealisc', 'Wales' from the Anglian plural 'Walas'.
But not all slaves were Welsh, Aelf wasn't for one.
But, in the end, the law could only be enforced if the woman had kinsfolk willing to stand up for her, and poor Hwita hasn't -
still less, of course, Eulalia/Aelf, the 'wealh' - the word once just meant 'foreigner', but came to mean both a slave and a Welsh person
(which was one and the same). 'Welsh' is from the Saxon 'wealisc', 'Wales' from the Anglian plural 'Walas'.
But not all slaves were Welsh, Aelf wasn't for one.
ronniebegoode
Guard
On first publication, the greatest source of controversy in this episode was the fishing hooks - whether they could have been made small enough for the purpose at this time and how they could be removed. Which is why in the next episode a sea sprite appears and magics them away - or did I dream that?
windar
Teller of Tales
The same is true today in Hollywood, Congress, the news media and countless other workplaces around the world. Plus ca change, plus c'est la, meme chose.
Good chapter.
ronniebegoode
Guard
I hadn't thought of that, but you're right.
ronniebegoode
Guard
Part 6 - Anyone who dislikes unconventional and historically unjustifiable rape scenes that border on porn, may want to give this a miss.
================================================================
“What is this?” Renweard said, squeezing and pulling at Eulalia’s nipples, causing her to cry out again with the pain. “You always were an evil bitch, Ealdgyth. Take your boys back to your bed chamber and leave the slave to me.”
“How dare you...” Osred started petulantly.
“How dare I what? Be rude to your mother? What are you going to do about it? Fight me? Call for your Dane friends to help you? Go back to your hall, Ealdorman and drink yourself to sleep. Like you always do.”
Ealdgyth turned on her heel and swept out of the barn while she still had some measure of dignity, with Siward and Ranulf behind her. Osred slunk off after them.
Renweard ran his finger along the twine that was tied to the hooks through Eulalia’s breasts and slipped it off the nail. He released the cartwheel’s axle, taking the tension off the slave’s aching body and allowing her to slide down into a sitting position at the base of the wheel.
“Untie her,” he commanded the men who attended him, “and fetch the blacksmith.”
Eulalia was glad to be off the wheel, but Renweard had said nothing about the hooks that had been thrust right through the flesh of her breasts and she saw no reason to trust him. There were too many men for any kind of fight, though, so she allowed herself to be untied and made to stand up on shaking legs.
The tall Saxon leered at her and took hold of the long length of twine. He pulled the string towards him, causing Eulalia to wince and take a step closer. She knew that having the hooks removed would involve unbearable agony, but it would be better than having Renweard and his friends pull her around by the tits.
Instead, Renweard kept holding the twine in one hand and took a flaming torch from one of his henchmen in the other. He thrust the fire towards Eulalia’s face, causing her to raise her hands and jump back in alarm. The sudden movement intensified the agony of the hooks and the gasping, weeping girl fell to her knees.
“Please, Sir, let me go. I’ll do what you want, anything, please let me go.”
Renweard thrust the torch in her face again, but he’d relaxed the tension on the twine, so Eulalia could dodge out of the way.
“What’s your name, slave?”
“Aelf, Sir,” Eulalia said, using her Saxon birth name, rather than the one given her by the nuns.
“Well, Aelf. You told everyone I was planning to rape you.”
“I’m sorry Sir. I was so frightened.”
“Stand up!”
“Yes Sir.”
Eulalia stood up, as Renweard pulled harder on the twine again. When she was standing, the sandy haired Saxon swung the torch left to right across her stomach, down towards her knees and then up into her crotch. Trying to spare her breasts any more torment, Eulalia tried to only move her legs, but she didn’t get far enough away. The flames caught her cunt hair and briefly set it alight.
“Aaaieeeh!” Eulalia cried as the fire scorched her skin and she caught a whiff of her singed bush. Renweard swung the torch again and again, forcing the terrified slave to back away until she felt something hard behind her legs and fell awkwardly onto a wooden platform used to store corn away from rats and the damp ground.
“Tie her down,” Renweard ordered, “and spread her out wide.”
Men took hold of her arms and legs and positioned her with her backside on the front edge of the platform. They pulled her arms out at an angle above her head and tied her wrists down to the wooden slats. Then they raised her legs and spread them out at 90 degrees to her body, a rope on each ankle attached to an upright several feet away on each side. Eulalia closed her eyes, knowing she was completely exposed and vulnerable. At least with her eyes shut she couldn’t see the lecherous looks of the men that surrounded her.
Everything seemed to quiet for a minute or two, before someone announced the arrival of the blacksmith. Eulalia couldn’t help opening her eyes to see what this might mean.
The blacksmith was accompanied by two of Renweard's men carrying a brazier between them on a stout pole. There was glowing charcoal in the bottom of the basket and a long-handled implement of some kind sticking out of it. Breca was there too, though Eulalia couldn’t see her clearly in the flickering torch light.
“Cut the barbs off those hooks,” Renweard instructed, “and pull them out. Don’t make her bleed more than you have to.”
The pain built up again as the blacksmith set to work and Eulalia wailed miserably as the rough metal was pulled back through her flesh. Once the hooks were gone, Breca was brought in to wash the wounds. She poured something on them that stung like crazy, while, through it all, Eulalia drifted in a space between agony and euphoria. Whatever else she felt about Renweard, she blessed him for relieving her of those hooks.
Her gratitude turned out to be premature. “Now you can do the brand,” Renweard informed the blacksmith.
Eulalia shrieked in terror. She’d seen brands put on cattle and that was upsetting enough. Her delicate skin was an entirely different matter, the brand would burn right into her flesh. She just couldn’t imagine how painful that was going to be, or how long the agony might last.
She struggled desperately with the ropes holding her wrists and ankles, but it was no use, the knots held firm. Throwing herself on Renweard’s mercy would only destroy the last slender shreds of her dignity, but she did it anyway. What choice did she have?
“No, why do you torture me? I’m just a girl, you shouldn’t brand me. I’m your slave, I will serve you, you don’t need to do this. Lord, Master, please, I beg of you, please, no ...”
While she raved, the blacksmith had pulled the branding iron out of the fire. It glowed bright red with an intensity that burned itself onto Eulalia’s retina. Two men held her left leg steady, another turned her body to one side, so her rump was exposed. The brand came closer till the squirming slave could feel its heat and then … the glowing metal made contact and Eulalia felt a searing pain far worse than she had ever imagined. The blacksmith held the iron in place for seconds that seemed like minutes, she heard the sizzle of melting flesh and smelt its stench. The blood pounded in her head and she screamed out to any god that might be listening to take her now and end the torture.
It ended briefly when she blacked out and resumed, with less intensity, when someone threw a bucket of freezing water over her head.
Renweard stepped onto the platform and crouched by Eulalia’s head. He stroked her hair and brushed his hand across her cheek with something like tenderness, but she looked into his eyes and saw only lust, contempt and terrible cruelty.
“Now, my slave. Are you ready to serve your master?”
Eulalia gulped and gazed back at him, her eyes wide, bloodshot and full of pain.
“Yes … Master.”
“That’s good.” His voice was even, quiet and calm, but laden with menace. “So when I fuck you, you won’t say it is rape.”
A cold hand seemed to grip Eulalia’s heart. Would her first time not be on a bed of linen with a loving husband, the way she’d dreamed it, but here in a filthy cold barn, tied, spread, branded, with Renweard's rabble watching? Truly, tonight, all of the gods, Christian and heathen, were asleep.
“I … Master … I’m a virgin … I … I beg you …”
Renweard stood up and there was no compassion on his face.
“It is true, then, you came from a nunnery. You think, perhaps, I should not deflower you because you are a saint.”
Eulalia racked her brains frantically for some logic that might persuade the brute to spare her. At last she spoke up.
“You, Master, are to be married. Surely you wouldn’t ...”
Renweard seemed temporarily thrown by this assertion and it was a minute before he spoke. “You are right,” he answered at last, causing Eulalia to sigh with relief. The Saxon, however, went on to address one of his followers. “Fetch the deflowering stick.”
Eulalia had no time to process what that might mean before Renweard seized Breca by the arm and pushed her down on her knees between her fellow-slave’s legs.
“Prepare her!” he demanded, clearly expecting that Breca would know what he meant. It turned out she did.
With a coy smile, Breca plunged her face into Eulalia’s vulva, sliding enthusiastically up and down her labia with soft, wet lips. Then she moved a little higher, nuzzling and sucking on the captive’s clit, until Eulalia was overwhelmed by an intense feeling of ecstasy. Breca pulled back and spread Eulalia’s cunt lips flat with her fingers, before darting along them with delicate flicks of her tongue.
“Oh, God!” Eulalia cried. She strained against the ropes, driven by an unbearable need to arch her back and grind her sex against Breca’s mouth. With the position in which she was tied, that was impossible. All she could do was strain and pant and cry out, horribly aware that she was performing for an audience of men that had gathered close around her. Some of those men, she could see, had their organs out and seemed to be rubbing them.
The stick arrived and Renweard dragged Breca away, cuffing her roughly on the head.
“I told you to prepare her, not do the job for me,” he complained. “Bring me some oil.”
The deflowering stick that Eulalia could now see in Renweard’s hand, was made of dark, hard wood, polished to a glossy, smooth finish. It had a ribbed handle and a shaft carved in the shape of a phallus, about six inches long and two inches in diameter. To Eulalia it looked huge and the idea that Renweard was about to thrust it into her caused her to renew her struggles and pleas for mercy.
Her master, of course, was in no mood to be merciful. He held out the stick over Eulalia’s torso, while Breca poured oil over it from a jug. Splashes of the oil fell heavily onto Eulalia’s stomach and the men standing round bent and dipped their hands in it.
Now ready, Renweard raised the phallus up in front of his face, then swept it down between his feet and forward till it smashed into Eulalia’s open and quivering vagina. Her hymen was torn with a ferocity that caused her to scream out in anguish, almost as loud as when she was branded. Having buried the monster to the hilt, Renweard began thrusting it in and out, pulling it back till the tip was almost visible and then forcing it back as hard and far as he could.
As this was going on, Renweard’s men, standing on either side in two lines of five, set to pumping their own cocks with newly oiled hands. One by one they began to ejaculate, spurting their seed over Eulalia’s stomach and breasts, and onto her face and hair. As she screamed with the agonising intensity of the assault, she tasted spunk that landed in her mouth or dribbled off her lips and slithered unbidden into her throat.
It was only when every man had deposited his load that Renweard stopped thrusting with the phallus and set it aside. He stepped onto the platform, standing astride Eulalia’s body, watching her gasping for breath and taking in the drying pools of semen, mixed with oil and streaks of her own sweat.
Saying nothing, he uncovered his erect member and began to stroke it as the other men had done. Eulalia watched, mortified and disgusted as Renweard groaned and aimed another stream of semen deliberately onto her face.
“Untie her,” Renweard said as he covered himself and strode away. “Bring her to my house and chain her up in the yard. She can sleep with the dogs.”
================================================================
“What is this?” Renweard said, squeezing and pulling at Eulalia’s nipples, causing her to cry out again with the pain. “You always were an evil bitch, Ealdgyth. Take your boys back to your bed chamber and leave the slave to me.”
“How dare you...” Osred started petulantly.
“How dare I what? Be rude to your mother? What are you going to do about it? Fight me? Call for your Dane friends to help you? Go back to your hall, Ealdorman and drink yourself to sleep. Like you always do.”
Ealdgyth turned on her heel and swept out of the barn while she still had some measure of dignity, with Siward and Ranulf behind her. Osred slunk off after them.
Renweard ran his finger along the twine that was tied to the hooks through Eulalia’s breasts and slipped it off the nail. He released the cartwheel’s axle, taking the tension off the slave’s aching body and allowing her to slide down into a sitting position at the base of the wheel.
“Untie her,” he commanded the men who attended him, “and fetch the blacksmith.”
Eulalia was glad to be off the wheel, but Renweard had said nothing about the hooks that had been thrust right through the flesh of her breasts and she saw no reason to trust him. There were too many men for any kind of fight, though, so she allowed herself to be untied and made to stand up on shaking legs.
The tall Saxon leered at her and took hold of the long length of twine. He pulled the string towards him, causing Eulalia to wince and take a step closer. She knew that having the hooks removed would involve unbearable agony, but it would be better than having Renweard and his friends pull her around by the tits.
Instead, Renweard kept holding the twine in one hand and took a flaming torch from one of his henchmen in the other. He thrust the fire towards Eulalia’s face, causing her to raise her hands and jump back in alarm. The sudden movement intensified the agony of the hooks and the gasping, weeping girl fell to her knees.
“Please, Sir, let me go. I’ll do what you want, anything, please let me go.”
Renweard thrust the torch in her face again, but he’d relaxed the tension on the twine, so Eulalia could dodge out of the way.
“What’s your name, slave?”
“Aelf, Sir,” Eulalia said, using her Saxon birth name, rather than the one given her by the nuns.
“Well, Aelf. You told everyone I was planning to rape you.”
“I’m sorry Sir. I was so frightened.”
“Stand up!”
“Yes Sir.”
Eulalia stood up, as Renweard pulled harder on the twine again. When she was standing, the sandy haired Saxon swung the torch left to right across her stomach, down towards her knees and then up into her crotch. Trying to spare her breasts any more torment, Eulalia tried to only move her legs, but she didn’t get far enough away. The flames caught her cunt hair and briefly set it alight.
“Aaaieeeh!” Eulalia cried as the fire scorched her skin and she caught a whiff of her singed bush. Renweard swung the torch again and again, forcing the terrified slave to back away until she felt something hard behind her legs and fell awkwardly onto a wooden platform used to store corn away from rats and the damp ground.
“Tie her down,” Renweard ordered, “and spread her out wide.”
Men took hold of her arms and legs and positioned her with her backside on the front edge of the platform. They pulled her arms out at an angle above her head and tied her wrists down to the wooden slats. Then they raised her legs and spread them out at 90 degrees to her body, a rope on each ankle attached to an upright several feet away on each side. Eulalia closed her eyes, knowing she was completely exposed and vulnerable. At least with her eyes shut she couldn’t see the lecherous looks of the men that surrounded her.
Everything seemed to quiet for a minute or two, before someone announced the arrival of the blacksmith. Eulalia couldn’t help opening her eyes to see what this might mean.
The blacksmith was accompanied by two of Renweard's men carrying a brazier between them on a stout pole. There was glowing charcoal in the bottom of the basket and a long-handled implement of some kind sticking out of it. Breca was there too, though Eulalia couldn’t see her clearly in the flickering torch light.
“Cut the barbs off those hooks,” Renweard instructed, “and pull them out. Don’t make her bleed more than you have to.”
The pain built up again as the blacksmith set to work and Eulalia wailed miserably as the rough metal was pulled back through her flesh. Once the hooks were gone, Breca was brought in to wash the wounds. She poured something on them that stung like crazy, while, through it all, Eulalia drifted in a space between agony and euphoria. Whatever else she felt about Renweard, she blessed him for relieving her of those hooks.
Her gratitude turned out to be premature. “Now you can do the brand,” Renweard informed the blacksmith.
Eulalia shrieked in terror. She’d seen brands put on cattle and that was upsetting enough. Her delicate skin was an entirely different matter, the brand would burn right into her flesh. She just couldn’t imagine how painful that was going to be, or how long the agony might last.
She struggled desperately with the ropes holding her wrists and ankles, but it was no use, the knots held firm. Throwing herself on Renweard’s mercy would only destroy the last slender shreds of her dignity, but she did it anyway. What choice did she have?
“No, why do you torture me? I’m just a girl, you shouldn’t brand me. I’m your slave, I will serve you, you don’t need to do this. Lord, Master, please, I beg of you, please, no ...”
While she raved, the blacksmith had pulled the branding iron out of the fire. It glowed bright red with an intensity that burned itself onto Eulalia’s retina. Two men held her left leg steady, another turned her body to one side, so her rump was exposed. The brand came closer till the squirming slave could feel its heat and then … the glowing metal made contact and Eulalia felt a searing pain far worse than she had ever imagined. The blacksmith held the iron in place for seconds that seemed like minutes, she heard the sizzle of melting flesh and smelt its stench. The blood pounded in her head and she screamed out to any god that might be listening to take her now and end the torture.
It ended briefly when she blacked out and resumed, with less intensity, when someone threw a bucket of freezing water over her head.
Renweard stepped onto the platform and crouched by Eulalia’s head. He stroked her hair and brushed his hand across her cheek with something like tenderness, but she looked into his eyes and saw only lust, contempt and terrible cruelty.
“Now, my slave. Are you ready to serve your master?”
Eulalia gulped and gazed back at him, her eyes wide, bloodshot and full of pain.
“Yes … Master.”
“That’s good.” His voice was even, quiet and calm, but laden with menace. “So when I fuck you, you won’t say it is rape.”
A cold hand seemed to grip Eulalia’s heart. Would her first time not be on a bed of linen with a loving husband, the way she’d dreamed it, but here in a filthy cold barn, tied, spread, branded, with Renweard's rabble watching? Truly, tonight, all of the gods, Christian and heathen, were asleep.
“I … Master … I’m a virgin … I … I beg you …”
Renweard stood up and there was no compassion on his face.
“It is true, then, you came from a nunnery. You think, perhaps, I should not deflower you because you are a saint.”
Eulalia racked her brains frantically for some logic that might persuade the brute to spare her. At last she spoke up.
“You, Master, are to be married. Surely you wouldn’t ...”
Renweard seemed temporarily thrown by this assertion and it was a minute before he spoke. “You are right,” he answered at last, causing Eulalia to sigh with relief. The Saxon, however, went on to address one of his followers. “Fetch the deflowering stick.”
Eulalia had no time to process what that might mean before Renweard seized Breca by the arm and pushed her down on her knees between her fellow-slave’s legs.
“Prepare her!” he demanded, clearly expecting that Breca would know what he meant. It turned out she did.
With a coy smile, Breca plunged her face into Eulalia’s vulva, sliding enthusiastically up and down her labia with soft, wet lips. Then she moved a little higher, nuzzling and sucking on the captive’s clit, until Eulalia was overwhelmed by an intense feeling of ecstasy. Breca pulled back and spread Eulalia’s cunt lips flat with her fingers, before darting along them with delicate flicks of her tongue.
“Oh, God!” Eulalia cried. She strained against the ropes, driven by an unbearable need to arch her back and grind her sex against Breca’s mouth. With the position in which she was tied, that was impossible. All she could do was strain and pant and cry out, horribly aware that she was performing for an audience of men that had gathered close around her. Some of those men, she could see, had their organs out and seemed to be rubbing them.
The stick arrived and Renweard dragged Breca away, cuffing her roughly on the head.
“I told you to prepare her, not do the job for me,” he complained. “Bring me some oil.”
The deflowering stick that Eulalia could now see in Renweard’s hand, was made of dark, hard wood, polished to a glossy, smooth finish. It had a ribbed handle and a shaft carved in the shape of a phallus, about six inches long and two inches in diameter. To Eulalia it looked huge and the idea that Renweard was about to thrust it into her caused her to renew her struggles and pleas for mercy.
Her master, of course, was in no mood to be merciful. He held out the stick over Eulalia’s torso, while Breca poured oil over it from a jug. Splashes of the oil fell heavily onto Eulalia’s stomach and the men standing round bent and dipped their hands in it.
Now ready, Renweard raised the phallus up in front of his face, then swept it down between his feet and forward till it smashed into Eulalia’s open and quivering vagina. Her hymen was torn with a ferocity that caused her to scream out in anguish, almost as loud as when she was branded. Having buried the monster to the hilt, Renweard began thrusting it in and out, pulling it back till the tip was almost visible and then forcing it back as hard and far as he could.
As this was going on, Renweard’s men, standing on either side in two lines of five, set to pumping their own cocks with newly oiled hands. One by one they began to ejaculate, spurting their seed over Eulalia’s stomach and breasts, and onto her face and hair. As she screamed with the agonising intensity of the assault, she tasted spunk that landed in her mouth or dribbled off her lips and slithered unbidden into her throat.
It was only when every man had deposited his load that Renweard stopped thrusting with the phallus and set it aside. He stepped onto the platform, standing astride Eulalia’s body, watching her gasping for breath and taking in the drying pools of semen, mixed with oil and streaks of her own sweat.
Saying nothing, he uncovered his erect member and began to stroke it as the other men had done. Eulalia watched, mortified and disgusted as Renweard groaned and aimed another stream of semen deliberately onto her face.
“Untie her,” Renweard said as he covered himself and strode away. “Bring her to my house and chain her up in the yard. She can sleep with the dogs.”
ronniebegoode
Guard
There came a point where I threw off the constraints of history and thought, sod it, let's have some fun. More seriously, there were serious consequences for raping a virgin, but I thought Renweard might see using artificial means as absolving him from the guilt. He wouldn't want his men to do it, he would still want to exercise his power over her directly. There was also in the back of my mind the thought that he is actually impotent, though that doesn't come out anywhere in the story.
windar
Teller of Tales
But I wonder if the so-called "facial" big in present day porn is something that men in that era would have thought of doing. This article says it's more of a post-1970 porn thing https://jezebel.com/5875217/he-wants-to-jizz-on-your-face-but-not-why-youd-think. The scene, while well done, didn't ring historically true to this reader as the rest of your story has.
ronniebegoode
Guard
I can't offer you any proof, but my justification would be that I can find no evidence that the modern male mind has thought up any sexual idea, or means of humiliating women that was unknown in the past. The article you reference is talking about pornography and I don't think it is saying ejaculating on a woman's body was totally unknown before the 1970s, just that it didn't feature in porn films.
I'd forgotten the debate about fish-hooks 
But I found a pic of some from the Viking Dig at York that were pretty close to what Ronnie describes and I imagine, small, sharp and painful even to think of.
As to what Anglo-Saxon or Viking men might have got up to with a naked woman tied spreadeagle in front of them, the answer probably is much what we'd expect. But I think they might have had a greater fear than men in our world of (a) the possible consequences of offending God, as by raping a woman subject to a vow of chastity (if they were supposed to be Christian, which Renweard and his men were), and (b) of 'wasting their seed', the very deep-rooted belief that men are physically weakened by sexual indulgence, especially masturbating. All the same, tied up and naked, I'm not giving much for my chances!
But I found a pic of some from the Viking Dig at York that were pretty close to what Ronnie describes and I imagine, small, sharp and painful even to think of. As to what Anglo-Saxon or Viking men might have got up to with a naked woman tied spreadeagle in front of them, the answer probably is much what we'd expect. But I think they might have had a greater fear than men in our world of (a) the possible consequences of offending God, as by raping a woman subject to a vow of chastity (if they were supposed to be Christian, which Renweard and his men were), and (b) of 'wasting their seed', the very deep-rooted belief that men are physically weakened by sexual indulgence, especially masturbating. All the same, tied up and naked, I'm not giving much for my chances!
malins
Stumbling Seeker
For my part I like the idea of giving these people their own strong moral codes (even if they may be ahistoric), ... plus their own creativity in circumventing those codes by not literally violating them... it makes them more interesting characters and less predictable what they do...
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Your chances to know the ecstasy ?
I agree. Up to a point, historical accuracy is fine, but let's not quibble over details.
I'm feeling nicely sympathetic to the plight of young Aelf.
ronniebegoode
Guard
It's also worth bearing in mind that I wrote the story to put Aelf into situations that I thought Eulalia would enjoy. If something came into my head that couldn't possibly have happened at the time, I wouldn't have used it, but if there was reasonable doubt, I gave Eulalia's enjoyment the benefit of it.
It's also worth bearing in mind that I wrote the story to put Aelf into situations that I thought Eulalia would enjoy. If something came into my head that couldn't possibly have happened at the time, I wouldn't have used it, but if there was reasonable doubt, I gave Eulalia's enjoyment the benefit of it.
Very considerate of you
ronniebegoode
Guard
Part 7
The men dragged Eulalia across Osred’s yard, between two buildings and along a track that led to Renweard’s farm. As a land owner in his own right, Renweard held an important position in Osred’s retinue. It happened that he was way stronger in build and character than his overlord, but the Danes had decided to favour the weaker man and, for now at least, there was nothing Renweard could do about it.
Eulalia’s captors took her to a lean-to against the wall of Renweard’s house. Inside there was a chain hanging from a post, attached to a metal collar that was lying on the floor. The collar was simply a hinged ring of metal with loops at each end. The chain ran through the hoop at one end and was attached to the loop at the other. They put the collar over Eulalia’s head, pulled the chain through, so the two ends closed together. Then they left.
When everything had gone quiet, Eulalia began to assess her situation. The night was cold and she was naked, as well as dirty and sore. The shack she’d been left in probably was intended as a shelter for dogs, but there were none there now. She investigated the collar and realised it would be fine for a dog, or a slave who was watched, but very easy for her to remove. She shivered. If she stayed where she was, she might die of cold in the night. Anyway, the negligent way she had been imprisoned gave her a rare opportunity to escape.
Pulling the collar over her head, Eulalia crept outside into the yard. Renweard’s house was dark and she expected the master would be drinking with the others in the hall. She slipped in through the door and waited while her eyes got used to the dark. There was a bright moon in the clear sky and that threw a pale glow through a window that she could use to find her way around.
Using her thief’s instincts, she felt her way around the house. She found some women’s clothes, presumably belonging to Renweard’s late wife. There was a dress and a shawl that would keep her warm and some shoes that more or less fit, so she put those on. There was a cloth bag, too, on a cord belt. She tied it around her waist, the bag hanging empty on her hip. It would come in useful for something.
Sure enough, coming to a table, she saw the remnants of a meal. There was enough bread, cheese and fruit to keep her going for a day or two. She crammed the bag with as much of the food as it would hold. There was a pitcher of ale, too, which she couldn’t carry, but at least gave her a chance to drink and get the taste of semen out of her mouth.
Fearing Renweard would come back and find her if she stayed too long, Eulalia left the house and set off by a circuitous route till she found her way out of the settlement and onto the road.
As she walked by the moonlight, Eulalia recognised how exhausted and traumatised she really was. In the house she had been fuelled by adrenalin, but that had dissipated. She forced herself to trudge along, when all she wanted to do was curl up in the ditch and sleep. That would be fatal. She could only move at night, under the cover of darkness, and the further she could get from Goltho before daybreak, the safer she would be.
Also weighing on her mind was the knowledge of how far it was to Lincylene. It had taken long enough in a cart drawn by a powerful horse. There was also the question of what she was going to do when she got there. Could she go back to living on her wits, like she had in Medesham and would she be able to avoid the attentions of Danish slave traders and other merchants that operated there?
As dawn broke, she was even more tired and thoroughly depressed. A copse of trees loomed out of the mist not far from the road. She headed for it and found a concealed and sheltered hole she could sleep in. She ate a little of the bread she had stolen and bedded down to wait out the day.
The light was much stronger when she awoke to the sound of dogs barking. Not a huge pack, but maybe two or three. They sounded excited, like they were on the scent of some quarry and Eulalia was afraid that would turn out to be her. Maybe if she didn’t move or make a sound they’d give up the hunt without finding her.
That hope lasted less than a minute, as the barking came closer. Dogs would search for her by scent and being quiet as a mouse wouldn’t save her. Tired and aching as her body still was, there was nothing for it but to run.
She emerged from her cover into the grey fenland morning. Now she could see clearly where she was, about a hundred feet from the road on the edge of a small expanse of woodland. Apart from that, the land was flat, wet and offered no cover. Way back down the road there was a man on a horse. He was too far away to be certain who it was, but she could guess and a cold fear gripped her heart. She turned and ran blindly into the wood.
Now the long, heavy dress became a real handicap. It dragged on the ground as she ran, wrapping itself around her legs and catching on branches and thorns. It felled her as she tried to vault a fallen tree stump, knocking the wind out of her belly and forcing her to lay gasping for breath. A full minute passed till she could get up, a minute the barking of the dogs told her she didn’t have.
Holding the skirt off the ground allowed her feet more freedom, but keeping her arms at her side impeded her balance. She wondered if it would be better to take the damned thing off altogether, but there was no time and, anyway, she didn’t want to be captured naked.
A small brook offered another option and a small hope of escape. She was about to cross it when she remembered that dogs couldn’t follow scent in water. She turned and ran along the stream, feeling the cold water fill her shoes and soak into the hem of the dress, making it even more clinging and heavy.
As she reached the edge of the copse, the barking seemed ever closer. Eulalia looked over her shoulder and now she could see them; two scruffy grey mutts, more used to hunting deer. The stream hadn’t helped her at all, the hounds had seen her and were pursuing by sight.
There was another clump of trees some way away across a swathe of damp, course grass. With no time to formulate a better plan, Eulalia picked up her skirt and ran as fast as she could. It wasn’t fast enough, but her lungs were running on empty, her throat was dry and each breath came as a short, agonised gasp. The dogs caught up and snapped at her heels, trying to grab her ankles as she ran.
The sound of hooves drumming on the flat earth told her it was over. Even in the dead light, the horse seemed to cast a shadow and she could almost feel the heat coming from its flanks. “Leave!” shouted a voice she recognised and feared more than any other. The dogs fell back, growling and whining with frustration as their master swung his whip, sending a ribbon of fire across Eulalia’s shoulders, even through the dress. She cried out and fell full length. When she didn’t get up, the dogs came and snuffled round her.
Renweard dismounted, reached down and pulled Eulalia to her feet. A broad grin spread over the big man’s face. “Well, well, well,” he said contemptuously. “For all that effort to escape, you didn’t get very far. And in my dead wife’s clothes too. What else did you steal?”
“Some food,” Eulalia rasped, as her lungs strained to suck in air, “that’s all. I could hardly walk, thanks to you. But, I had to try, rather than die of cold in that shack.”
Renweard laughed. “I wouldn’t let you die,” he said gruffly. “I’d have brought you in when I came back from the hall. I might even have fucked you to warm you up, if you were lucky. But, now I’ll take you back as a runaway slave and you’ll have to be made an example of.”
He dragged her to the horse and took a coiled rope from the back of the saddle. “Hold your hands out,” he ordered. He wrapped rope round her wrists and then wound it a few turns between them, cinching the bond tight. He threw the other end over the horse’s back and went round to tie it, pulling it so his prisoner was stretched against the animal’s flank.
Then Renweard took a knife from his belt and ripped the dress off her back, cutting across the gash in the cloth left by the whip. Eulalia heard him spit on his hand and knew what she was in for, though not which opening he intended to use. His hand answered that for her very quickly as he stuffed his fingers into her vagina. She cried out, still sore from the previous night’s assault with the stick, but her master had no concern for that. The rape was hard, brutal and mercifully short, as he bashed her fragile body repeatedly against the horse’s hide.
Having satisfied himself, Renweard untied the sobbing slave and threw her over the horse. He pulled the rope from her wrists under the animal’s body and tied it to her ankles, stuffing the ripped dress into a bag. Then he sprung easily into the saddle, slapping Eulalia’s backside hard as they set off. The two dogs, who had been watching grumpily as their master enjoyed the spoils of their hunting, loped alongside.
“Enjoy the ride,” Renweard growled, slipping his hand between her legs and pinching the insides of her thighs. “This is the best you’re going to feel for a long, long time.”
For Eulalia, the ride back to Goltho passed in a daze. She could see little more than the rough track as it passed underneath the horse. Her prone position sent the blood to her head and she could feel it throbbing in her veins. As the animal trotted gently along, she felt its rough hair under her belly, while her arms and legs rubbed against its flanks. Though it was undoubtedly a noble beast, the contact with her naked body was making her skin itch.
Renweard rode the horse into the courtyard outside Osred’s hall. He dismounted and untied the rope from Eulalia’s feet and half dragged, half carried her into the hall. That soon after midday there were few people around; just Osred and a few of his hangers on drinking and bragging about the daring, outrageous deeds they had never done and were never likely to do.
“You found your girl, then,” Osred called, as Renweard hauled Eulalia to one of the stout posts in the centre of the hall.
“On the road to Lincylene,” Renweard said. “So now she can find out what happens to runaway slaves. It’ll be a good lesson for the others, too, in case they get any ideas.”
He tied the rope from Eulalia’s wrists to a ring hanging from the post. He disappeared outside for a few minutes and came back with the remnants of his wife’s dress. He tore a long, straight strip of cloth and wound it several times around Eulalia’s head till it completely covered her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Having split the cloth and tied the ends, he turned the trembling slave so her back was against the wood and used another strip of cloth to bind her legs to the upright.
“I need two or three of your men, Osred,” Renweard demanded. “They can help me get the iron cage and hang it over the fire.”
The men dragged Eulalia across Osred’s yard, between two buildings and along a track that led to Renweard’s farm. As a land owner in his own right, Renweard held an important position in Osred’s retinue. It happened that he was way stronger in build and character than his overlord, but the Danes had decided to favour the weaker man and, for now at least, there was nothing Renweard could do about it.
Eulalia’s captors took her to a lean-to against the wall of Renweard’s house. Inside there was a chain hanging from a post, attached to a metal collar that was lying on the floor. The collar was simply a hinged ring of metal with loops at each end. The chain ran through the hoop at one end and was attached to the loop at the other. They put the collar over Eulalia’s head, pulled the chain through, so the two ends closed together. Then they left.
When everything had gone quiet, Eulalia began to assess her situation. The night was cold and she was naked, as well as dirty and sore. The shack she’d been left in probably was intended as a shelter for dogs, but there were none there now. She investigated the collar and realised it would be fine for a dog, or a slave who was watched, but very easy for her to remove. She shivered. If she stayed where she was, she might die of cold in the night. Anyway, the negligent way she had been imprisoned gave her a rare opportunity to escape.
Pulling the collar over her head, Eulalia crept outside into the yard. Renweard’s house was dark and she expected the master would be drinking with the others in the hall. She slipped in through the door and waited while her eyes got used to the dark. There was a bright moon in the clear sky and that threw a pale glow through a window that she could use to find her way around.
Using her thief’s instincts, she felt her way around the house. She found some women’s clothes, presumably belonging to Renweard’s late wife. There was a dress and a shawl that would keep her warm and some shoes that more or less fit, so she put those on. There was a cloth bag, too, on a cord belt. She tied it around her waist, the bag hanging empty on her hip. It would come in useful for something.
Sure enough, coming to a table, she saw the remnants of a meal. There was enough bread, cheese and fruit to keep her going for a day or two. She crammed the bag with as much of the food as it would hold. There was a pitcher of ale, too, which she couldn’t carry, but at least gave her a chance to drink and get the taste of semen out of her mouth.
Fearing Renweard would come back and find her if she stayed too long, Eulalia left the house and set off by a circuitous route till she found her way out of the settlement and onto the road.
As she walked by the moonlight, Eulalia recognised how exhausted and traumatised she really was. In the house she had been fuelled by adrenalin, but that had dissipated. She forced herself to trudge along, when all she wanted to do was curl up in the ditch and sleep. That would be fatal. She could only move at night, under the cover of darkness, and the further she could get from Goltho before daybreak, the safer she would be.
Also weighing on her mind was the knowledge of how far it was to Lincylene. It had taken long enough in a cart drawn by a powerful horse. There was also the question of what she was going to do when she got there. Could she go back to living on her wits, like she had in Medesham and would she be able to avoid the attentions of Danish slave traders and other merchants that operated there?
As dawn broke, she was even more tired and thoroughly depressed. A copse of trees loomed out of the mist not far from the road. She headed for it and found a concealed and sheltered hole she could sleep in. She ate a little of the bread she had stolen and bedded down to wait out the day.
The light was much stronger when she awoke to the sound of dogs barking. Not a huge pack, but maybe two or three. They sounded excited, like they were on the scent of some quarry and Eulalia was afraid that would turn out to be her. Maybe if she didn’t move or make a sound they’d give up the hunt without finding her.
That hope lasted less than a minute, as the barking came closer. Dogs would search for her by scent and being quiet as a mouse wouldn’t save her. Tired and aching as her body still was, there was nothing for it but to run.
She emerged from her cover into the grey fenland morning. Now she could see clearly where she was, about a hundred feet from the road on the edge of a small expanse of woodland. Apart from that, the land was flat, wet and offered no cover. Way back down the road there was a man on a horse. He was too far away to be certain who it was, but she could guess and a cold fear gripped her heart. She turned and ran blindly into the wood.
Now the long, heavy dress became a real handicap. It dragged on the ground as she ran, wrapping itself around her legs and catching on branches and thorns. It felled her as she tried to vault a fallen tree stump, knocking the wind out of her belly and forcing her to lay gasping for breath. A full minute passed till she could get up, a minute the barking of the dogs told her she didn’t have.
Holding the skirt off the ground allowed her feet more freedom, but keeping her arms at her side impeded her balance. She wondered if it would be better to take the damned thing off altogether, but there was no time and, anyway, she didn’t want to be captured naked.
A small brook offered another option and a small hope of escape. She was about to cross it when she remembered that dogs couldn’t follow scent in water. She turned and ran along the stream, feeling the cold water fill her shoes and soak into the hem of the dress, making it even more clinging and heavy.
As she reached the edge of the copse, the barking seemed ever closer. Eulalia looked over her shoulder and now she could see them; two scruffy grey mutts, more used to hunting deer. The stream hadn’t helped her at all, the hounds had seen her and were pursuing by sight.
There was another clump of trees some way away across a swathe of damp, course grass. With no time to formulate a better plan, Eulalia picked up her skirt and ran as fast as she could. It wasn’t fast enough, but her lungs were running on empty, her throat was dry and each breath came as a short, agonised gasp. The dogs caught up and snapped at her heels, trying to grab her ankles as she ran.
The sound of hooves drumming on the flat earth told her it was over. Even in the dead light, the horse seemed to cast a shadow and she could almost feel the heat coming from its flanks. “Leave!” shouted a voice she recognised and feared more than any other. The dogs fell back, growling and whining with frustration as their master swung his whip, sending a ribbon of fire across Eulalia’s shoulders, even through the dress. She cried out and fell full length. When she didn’t get up, the dogs came and snuffled round her.
Renweard dismounted, reached down and pulled Eulalia to her feet. A broad grin spread over the big man’s face. “Well, well, well,” he said contemptuously. “For all that effort to escape, you didn’t get very far. And in my dead wife’s clothes too. What else did you steal?”
“Some food,” Eulalia rasped, as her lungs strained to suck in air, “that’s all. I could hardly walk, thanks to you. But, I had to try, rather than die of cold in that shack.”
Renweard laughed. “I wouldn’t let you die,” he said gruffly. “I’d have brought you in when I came back from the hall. I might even have fucked you to warm you up, if you were lucky. But, now I’ll take you back as a runaway slave and you’ll have to be made an example of.”
He dragged her to the horse and took a coiled rope from the back of the saddle. “Hold your hands out,” he ordered. He wrapped rope round her wrists and then wound it a few turns between them, cinching the bond tight. He threw the other end over the horse’s back and went round to tie it, pulling it so his prisoner was stretched against the animal’s flank.
Then Renweard took a knife from his belt and ripped the dress off her back, cutting across the gash in the cloth left by the whip. Eulalia heard him spit on his hand and knew what she was in for, though not which opening he intended to use. His hand answered that for her very quickly as he stuffed his fingers into her vagina. She cried out, still sore from the previous night’s assault with the stick, but her master had no concern for that. The rape was hard, brutal and mercifully short, as he bashed her fragile body repeatedly against the horse’s hide.
Having satisfied himself, Renweard untied the sobbing slave and threw her over the horse. He pulled the rope from her wrists under the animal’s body and tied it to her ankles, stuffing the ripped dress into a bag. Then he sprung easily into the saddle, slapping Eulalia’s backside hard as they set off. The two dogs, who had been watching grumpily as their master enjoyed the spoils of their hunting, loped alongside.
“Enjoy the ride,” Renweard growled, slipping his hand between her legs and pinching the insides of her thighs. “This is the best you’re going to feel for a long, long time.”
For Eulalia, the ride back to Goltho passed in a daze. She could see little more than the rough track as it passed underneath the horse. Her prone position sent the blood to her head and she could feel it throbbing in her veins. As the animal trotted gently along, she felt its rough hair under her belly, while her arms and legs rubbed against its flanks. Though it was undoubtedly a noble beast, the contact with her naked body was making her skin itch.
Renweard rode the horse into the courtyard outside Osred’s hall. He dismounted and untied the rope from Eulalia’s feet and half dragged, half carried her into the hall. That soon after midday there were few people around; just Osred and a few of his hangers on drinking and bragging about the daring, outrageous deeds they had never done and were never likely to do.
“You found your girl, then,” Osred called, as Renweard hauled Eulalia to one of the stout posts in the centre of the hall.
“On the road to Lincylene,” Renweard said. “So now she can find out what happens to runaway slaves. It’ll be a good lesson for the others, too, in case they get any ideas.”
He tied the rope from Eulalia’s wrists to a ring hanging from the post. He disappeared outside for a few minutes and came back with the remnants of his wife’s dress. He tore a long, straight strip of cloth and wound it several times around Eulalia’s head till it completely covered her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Having split the cloth and tied the ends, he turned the trembling slave so her back was against the wood and used another strip of cloth to bind her legs to the upright.
“I need two or three of your men, Osred,” Renweard demanded. “They can help me get the iron cage and hang it over the fire.”
ronniebegoode
Guard
I'll have you know, I take my responsibilities very seriously.Very considerate of you
Sigh. A thorough exploration of futility if there ever was one.
Nice writing
