ronniebegoode
Guard
My first post here, so be gentle - it's a story that arose from a conversation I had with @Eulalia about Bernard Cornwell's "The Last Kingdom", which refers to convents being overrun by the Danes, though Cornwell doesn't explore that in any detail. I thought there might a story there, nuns living under constant threat of being captured, raped, taken as slaves. Could Eulalia see herself in a story like that? Oh, yes, she could!
The story is set in the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia in the late 860s. Medesham is a fictional town, based on Medeshamstede, the settlement that became the English city of Peterborough. It was an important monastic centre and it's at least feasible that it housed both monks and nuns. With Eulalia's help, I have tried to avoid anachronisms, but if there are any, I claim dramatic licence.
@Eulalia is Aelf, the thief of the title.
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Part 1
"Thief! Thief! Stop her! Thief!”
Aelf ran, weaving through the slow-witted market day crowd, with the practised agility of one who lives by evading capture. Between stalls laden with produce, straight through a knot of gossiping women, laughing at the fading, now breathless cries of her pursuers. And for what? A loaf of dry bread and a couple of apples. A small loss of profit for the trader, but life or death for an orphan girl surviving on her wits.
As she rounded the corner by the monastery, Aelf was confident of escape. The pursuit was too far behind now, she could lose herself easily in the alleys and byways that proliferated around the church. And then, crunch! Her legs whipped from under her by the crook of a stick, she tumbled awkwardly onto the dusty earth, grazing her knees and squashing the loaf she concealed under her rough cloak. Two apples fell from her grasp and rolled slowly towards the ditch.
“Take her inside,” the Prioress of Medesham commanded, waving her stick at the half dozen monks watching the shocked and winded thief. “Let us see what else the whore has concealed under her shift.”
“I am no whore!” Aelf protested, as rough hands dragged her into the monastery compound. The party of monks dragged their struggling captive into an open space between the buildings. The Prioress followed behind, now leading a small procession of devoted monks and nuns.
Between the dorter and the kitchens stood a tall, stout wooden post with a ladder leaning up against it. The discovery and punishment of immoral conduct was the personal project of the Prioress and the whipping post was in frequent use. The monks ripped away Aelf’s cloak, itself stolen some months before, and pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing nothing else. Clothes were expensive and hard to steal. Aelf had more need of food and, anyway, she was saving for her future.
The men wound rope around her wrists, made her stand on the bottom rung of the ladder and tied her hands to the post. They spread her legs and tied her ankles to the ladder's side rail. Male hands took advantage of her helpless state and remorselessly probed her body, searching, apparently, for whatever contraband she might have concealed between her breasts.
Another hand explored between her legs, fingers combing and tugging the brown curls of her pubic hair, then tentatively exploring the slit concealed beneath her bush. The investigation was careful, because even accidentally deflowering a virgin carried penalties. Aelf squealed in protest and bucked her hips to escape the invasion, but her defiance earned her a smacked vulva and several hard swats across her backside.
“Keep still,” a male voice threatened, “if you know what’s good for you.” The inspection continued, with Aelf whimpering pathetically, but not daring to move.
“What she says is true,” the monk conceded at last. “Her virginity is intact.”
That news caused some consternation. Virginity, in the male-dominated morality of Anglo-Saxon England, was a highly prized commodity. A female vagrant of child-bearing age was assumed, certainly by the religious community of Medesham, to be copulating at every possible opportunity, and, most likely, for money.
Another monk stepped forward, gripped her jaw and thrust his salty fingers into her mouth. “Don’t think we’re fooled, virgin whore,” he sneered malevolently, pushing his face close to hers. “We know there’s more than one place you can take a prick.”
Aelf resisted the temptation to bite him and gagged instead.
“Search in her arse” the Prioress demanded. “She could conceal any amount of stolen trinkets up there.”
Aelf heard a monk spit on his fingers and felt him push two of them roughly into her anus. It hurt, a feeling unlike any she had experienced before, accompanied by a terrible sense of humiliation and shame. “Owwww! Stop!” she cried desperately. “Please, you’re hurting me, OWWW! AHHH!”
The monk took no notice, shoving his fingers further in, till her sphincter closed over his knuckles. She felt his fingers curl, poking and stretching the cavity until at last he pulled them out and stood in front of her, ostentatiously wiping his hand on her cloak.
“Nothing in there,” he announced with a smirk. “Quite the angelic little virgin, in fact.”
“Whip her,” the Prioress ordered coldly. “Twenty lashes, for the theft. Then take her to the dorter, the novices will tend to her.”
Blinking back tears, Aelf looked around her. Behind the Prioress, in the doorway of the kitchens, nuns were stood quietly watching her humiliation. Even in an institution intended to protect women, the destruction of her defiance and self-esteem was being left to men.
As a twelve-year-old, she had hidden in a barn while a group of warriors brutally raped her mother and older sister in front of her father. Ever since, she had feared and distrusted all species of men. It wasn’t as if they had been Danish brigands from the north; these were good Christian yeomen from Wessex, sent by Æthelberht to dissuade the Mercians from cutting a deal with the heathen invaders. Having killed her family, the raiders set fire to the farm. It was a miracle Aelf escaped.
In front of her, the monks were preparing her punishment and were making sure she could see. They took a length of rope, tied several evenly spaced knots at one end of it and soaked it for a few minutes in a bucket of salted water. The first stroke slashed diagonally from her left shoulder, across her back, finally scoring her right side under her bust. It left a livid red welt that burned like a brand. Aelf screamed, horribly aware that this was only the start.
“One!” The Prioress began the count, a gleam in her eye betraying a sadistic delight in the young girl’s torment. The monk with the lash swung it again, lower across the middle of Aelf’s back, the renewed shock causing her to scream a second time and pull at the rope holding her wrists. The movement pulled the bonds tighter and chafed her wrists. “Two!”
Another stroke brought up a deep red and blue welt across Aelf’s buttocks and caused her knees to buckle. The fourth went higher and opened a new ribbon of fire along her shoulders, the fifth filled in the space above her waist and so on. By the count of “ten” her skin was a striped with red from her neck to her buttocks. She could no longer scream, but hung by the rope around her wrists, sobbing, her whole body shaking.
By the time they had finished and threw the contents of the bucket over her, Aelf’s back was a raw and bloodied pulp. The brine stung the open wounds and brought her briefly back to the conscious world, but she only stayed long enough to mumble something between a prayer and a plea for mercy. The monks cut her down, laid her face down on a broken door and carried her to the novices’ dormitory, where they dumped her unceremoniously on a cot.
The story is set in the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia in the late 860s. Medesham is a fictional town, based on Medeshamstede, the settlement that became the English city of Peterborough. It was an important monastic centre and it's at least feasible that it housed both monks and nuns. With Eulalia's help, I have tried to avoid anachronisms, but if there are any, I claim dramatic licence.
@Eulalia is Aelf, the thief of the title.
=======================================================================
Part 1
"Thief! Thief! Stop her! Thief!”
Aelf ran, weaving through the slow-witted market day crowd, with the practised agility of one who lives by evading capture. Between stalls laden with produce, straight through a knot of gossiping women, laughing at the fading, now breathless cries of her pursuers. And for what? A loaf of dry bread and a couple of apples. A small loss of profit for the trader, but life or death for an orphan girl surviving on her wits.
As she rounded the corner by the monastery, Aelf was confident of escape. The pursuit was too far behind now, she could lose herself easily in the alleys and byways that proliferated around the church. And then, crunch! Her legs whipped from under her by the crook of a stick, she tumbled awkwardly onto the dusty earth, grazing her knees and squashing the loaf she concealed under her rough cloak. Two apples fell from her grasp and rolled slowly towards the ditch.
“Take her inside,” the Prioress of Medesham commanded, waving her stick at the half dozen monks watching the shocked and winded thief. “Let us see what else the whore has concealed under her shift.”
“I am no whore!” Aelf protested, as rough hands dragged her into the monastery compound. The party of monks dragged their struggling captive into an open space between the buildings. The Prioress followed behind, now leading a small procession of devoted monks and nuns.
Between the dorter and the kitchens stood a tall, stout wooden post with a ladder leaning up against it. The discovery and punishment of immoral conduct was the personal project of the Prioress and the whipping post was in frequent use. The monks ripped away Aelf’s cloak, itself stolen some months before, and pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing nothing else. Clothes were expensive and hard to steal. Aelf had more need of food and, anyway, she was saving for her future.
The men wound rope around her wrists, made her stand on the bottom rung of the ladder and tied her hands to the post. They spread her legs and tied her ankles to the ladder's side rail. Male hands took advantage of her helpless state and remorselessly probed her body, searching, apparently, for whatever contraband she might have concealed between her breasts.
Another hand explored between her legs, fingers combing and tugging the brown curls of her pubic hair, then tentatively exploring the slit concealed beneath her bush. The investigation was careful, because even accidentally deflowering a virgin carried penalties. Aelf squealed in protest and bucked her hips to escape the invasion, but her defiance earned her a smacked vulva and several hard swats across her backside.
“Keep still,” a male voice threatened, “if you know what’s good for you.” The inspection continued, with Aelf whimpering pathetically, but not daring to move.
“What she says is true,” the monk conceded at last. “Her virginity is intact.”
That news caused some consternation. Virginity, in the male-dominated morality of Anglo-Saxon England, was a highly prized commodity. A female vagrant of child-bearing age was assumed, certainly by the religious community of Medesham, to be copulating at every possible opportunity, and, most likely, for money.
Another monk stepped forward, gripped her jaw and thrust his salty fingers into her mouth. “Don’t think we’re fooled, virgin whore,” he sneered malevolently, pushing his face close to hers. “We know there’s more than one place you can take a prick.”
Aelf resisted the temptation to bite him and gagged instead.
“Search in her arse” the Prioress demanded. “She could conceal any amount of stolen trinkets up there.”
Aelf heard a monk spit on his fingers and felt him push two of them roughly into her anus. It hurt, a feeling unlike any she had experienced before, accompanied by a terrible sense of humiliation and shame. “Owwww! Stop!” she cried desperately. “Please, you’re hurting me, OWWW! AHHH!”
The monk took no notice, shoving his fingers further in, till her sphincter closed over his knuckles. She felt his fingers curl, poking and stretching the cavity until at last he pulled them out and stood in front of her, ostentatiously wiping his hand on her cloak.
“Nothing in there,” he announced with a smirk. “Quite the angelic little virgin, in fact.”
“Whip her,” the Prioress ordered coldly. “Twenty lashes, for the theft. Then take her to the dorter, the novices will tend to her.”
Blinking back tears, Aelf looked around her. Behind the Prioress, in the doorway of the kitchens, nuns were stood quietly watching her humiliation. Even in an institution intended to protect women, the destruction of her defiance and self-esteem was being left to men.
As a twelve-year-old, she had hidden in a barn while a group of warriors brutally raped her mother and older sister in front of her father. Ever since, she had feared and distrusted all species of men. It wasn’t as if they had been Danish brigands from the north; these were good Christian yeomen from Wessex, sent by Æthelberht to dissuade the Mercians from cutting a deal with the heathen invaders. Having killed her family, the raiders set fire to the farm. It was a miracle Aelf escaped.
In front of her, the monks were preparing her punishment and were making sure she could see. They took a length of rope, tied several evenly spaced knots at one end of it and soaked it for a few minutes in a bucket of salted water. The first stroke slashed diagonally from her left shoulder, across her back, finally scoring her right side under her bust. It left a livid red welt that burned like a brand. Aelf screamed, horribly aware that this was only the start.
“One!” The Prioress began the count, a gleam in her eye betraying a sadistic delight in the young girl’s torment. The monk with the lash swung it again, lower across the middle of Aelf’s back, the renewed shock causing her to scream a second time and pull at the rope holding her wrists. The movement pulled the bonds tighter and chafed her wrists. “Two!”
Another stroke brought up a deep red and blue welt across Aelf’s buttocks and caused her knees to buckle. The fourth went higher and opened a new ribbon of fire along her shoulders, the fifth filled in the space above her waist and so on. By the count of “ten” her skin was a striped with red from her neck to her buttocks. She could no longer scream, but hung by the rope around her wrists, sobbing, her whole body shaking.
By the time they had finished and threw the contents of the bucket over her, Aelf’s back was a raw and bloodied pulp. The brine stung the open wounds and brought her briefly back to the conscious world, but she only stayed long enough to mumble something between a prayer and a plea for mercy. The monks cut her down, laid her face down on a broken door and carried her to the novices’ dormitory, where they dumped her unceremoniously on a cot.
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