Barb goes batty BATS
1. To the town square I resignedly trudge, flanked at both sides by my two brawny bare-chested executioners. Up ahead a sizable crowd has gathered. And high over the square a cloth banner flutters in the breeze. Emblazoned on it are the words: ‘Witch Burning Today’.
Witch burning days occur once a year in Cruxton, as officially decreed by the Earls of Cruxton sometime back in the 1500s. The burnings had been going on now for over a century and had become a well attended, keenly anticipated celebratory event.
The cause of my downfall and eventual condemnation as a witch had been innocent enough. It seems nature has blessed me … or perhaps more accurately, cursed me with a tight little bottom, to which many of the town’s menfolk find themselves highly attracted. So attracted, in fact, that they are constantly driven to ogle it and, if the opportunity presents, even get their hands on it … none of which hardly ever sets well with their wives.
And so it was that at an impromptu gathering of the highly aggrieved (not to mention very jealous) womenfolk of the town, a motion was made and approved to have me accused of witchery. Such a tempting tight little could only be the work of the Devil himself, they resolved. To the authorities Barb Moore must be duly reported, tried and punished.
And so It was that I was hauled before a hearing of the town magistrates, chaired by Lord @Wragg , the thirteenth Earl of Cruxton, himself. Seated to the left of Wragg on the dais were the town elders, Messers @old slave and @twonines. To his right were Messers @montycrusto and @Jollyrei
Oldslave was the most senior. No one in fact really knew how old the old man was, and he nearly always appeared half asleep. But I knew from personal experience that he could be quite lecherous and not above pinching my tight little at every given opportunity as he sat in the Cruxton Pub, where I worked as a barmaid.
Twonines had a reputation as the town dandy. He was extraordinarily quick witted; also handsomely and flamboyantly dressed at all times … except when he bedded me, which was at every opportunity, but thankfully only in his dreams.
Montycrusto fancied himself a man of letters … a poet, who liked to entertain everyone at the pub with a steady stream of witty, but usually dirty, limericks. He also liked to deface the tablecloths by drawing on them crude and raunchy depictions of me and my tight little. He and Twonines were often in cahoots and would corner me in the back room of the pub if given half a chance.
I always thought of Jollyrei as a kindly, good humored sort despite his rather dark and morbid interests, which included some copies of well known art masterpieces he once showed me, in which he had cleverly inserted a likeness of me wearing nothing at all. The man always had a peculiarly cadaverous look about him. But that would be expected of the town’s undertaker, wouldn’t it?
And that brings us back to Lord Wragg, with whom I also had a history. For prior to working at the town pub, I had done a stint as a maid up at the manor house, Cruxton Abbey, during which he introduced me to every four-poster bed in the place … and let me tell you, there were many of them too. Eventually, the Countess got wind of it, and I was sacked. I’m not sure what all the fuss was about.
The proceedings began when Bailiff Rodent rose to announce, “All rise!”, which was kind of silly because other than the magistrates there was no one else present, presumably because none of these gentlemen wanted the fact that they themselves were all guilty of admiring or handling my tight little to become public knowledge.
The bailiff, who liked to playfully refer to himself as a @RacingRodent was at first impression a real nut job, but in fact he had an agile mind and a flawless memory for detail, as well as a reputation for looking up skirts at the most improbable times and places.
Subconsciously I checked the positioning of my own skirts as I stood, head bowed, before them all. As an afterthought I also adjusted my bodice.
The bailiff, after an appropriately pregnant pause, continued, “Before this august panel on this eighth day of July, in the year of our Lord 1715, we have the case of Barbara Moore, barmaid; accused of witchery. More specifically of wanton flaunting of a particular bit of her quite awesome anatomy with the intent purpose of undermining the good moral fiber of the menfolk of the fair town of Cruxton. Her scandalous behavior, so it is charged, can only be seen as the evil work of the Devil.”
There followed a few moments of shifting about among the magistrates on the dais. Oldslave actually opened his eyes for an instant. Jollyrei appeared to be jotting down what looked like coffin measurements on a piece of paper. Twonines and Montycrusto grinned and winked luridly at one another, while Lord Wragg removed his hands from whatever they had been doing under the table to mop his brow and adjust his wig.
Rising from his seat, the Earl looked down on me and said, “What say you to these charges, Barbara Moore?”
“Rubbish!” I replied. “I’m as innocent as a newborn babe. If it’s guilt you want, gentlemen, look to yourselves!”
“I’ll record that as ‘not guilty’ interjected Bailiff Rodent officiously.
“You know, Miss Moore, We have ways of extracting the truth,” warned the Earl with a most serious look.
“Aren’t you concerned about whom I might name…” I began to reply before I was rudely cut off in mid-sentence.
“Enough!” roared Wragg. “Bailiff call in the guard and have this insolent little hussy removed and taken in fetters to the cellar chambers and tell Master @windar to use whatever torturous means he deems necessary to pry a true confession from her lips before this day is out. Gentlemen, we are adjourned until the morrow.”
And so I was taken away, and the louts who hauled me off were anything but gentle about it.
TBC
1. To the town square I resignedly trudge, flanked at both sides by my two brawny bare-chested executioners. Up ahead a sizable crowd has gathered. And high over the square a cloth banner flutters in the breeze. Emblazoned on it are the words: ‘Witch Burning Today’.
Witch burning days occur once a year in Cruxton, as officially decreed by the Earls of Cruxton sometime back in the 1500s. The burnings had been going on now for over a century and had become a well attended, keenly anticipated celebratory event.
The cause of my downfall and eventual condemnation as a witch had been innocent enough. It seems nature has blessed me … or perhaps more accurately, cursed me with a tight little bottom, to which many of the town’s menfolk find themselves highly attracted. So attracted, in fact, that they are constantly driven to ogle it and, if the opportunity presents, even get their hands on it … none of which hardly ever sets well with their wives.
And so it was that at an impromptu gathering of the highly aggrieved (not to mention very jealous) womenfolk of the town, a motion was made and approved to have me accused of witchery. Such a tempting tight little could only be the work of the Devil himself, they resolved. To the authorities Barb Moore must be duly reported, tried and punished.
And so It was that I was hauled before a hearing of the town magistrates, chaired by Lord @Wragg , the thirteenth Earl of Cruxton, himself. Seated to the left of Wragg on the dais were the town elders, Messers @old slave and @twonines. To his right were Messers @montycrusto and @Jollyrei
Oldslave was the most senior. No one in fact really knew how old the old man was, and he nearly always appeared half asleep. But I knew from personal experience that he could be quite lecherous and not above pinching my tight little at every given opportunity as he sat in the Cruxton Pub, where I worked as a barmaid.
Twonines had a reputation as the town dandy. He was extraordinarily quick witted; also handsomely and flamboyantly dressed at all times … except when he bedded me, which was at every opportunity, but thankfully only in his dreams.
Montycrusto fancied himself a man of letters … a poet, who liked to entertain everyone at the pub with a steady stream of witty, but usually dirty, limericks. He also liked to deface the tablecloths by drawing on them crude and raunchy depictions of me and my tight little. He and Twonines were often in cahoots and would corner me in the back room of the pub if given half a chance.
I always thought of Jollyrei as a kindly, good humored sort despite his rather dark and morbid interests, which included some copies of well known art masterpieces he once showed me, in which he had cleverly inserted a likeness of me wearing nothing at all. The man always had a peculiarly cadaverous look about him. But that would be expected of the town’s undertaker, wouldn’t it?
And that brings us back to Lord Wragg, with whom I also had a history. For prior to working at the town pub, I had done a stint as a maid up at the manor house, Cruxton Abbey, during which he introduced me to every four-poster bed in the place … and let me tell you, there were many of them too. Eventually, the Countess got wind of it, and I was sacked. I’m not sure what all the fuss was about.
The proceedings began when Bailiff Rodent rose to announce, “All rise!”, which was kind of silly because other than the magistrates there was no one else present, presumably because none of these gentlemen wanted the fact that they themselves were all guilty of admiring or handling my tight little to become public knowledge.
The bailiff, who liked to playfully refer to himself as a @RacingRodent was at first impression a real nut job, but in fact he had an agile mind and a flawless memory for detail, as well as a reputation for looking up skirts at the most improbable times and places.
Subconsciously I checked the positioning of my own skirts as I stood, head bowed, before them all. As an afterthought I also adjusted my bodice.
The bailiff, after an appropriately pregnant pause, continued, “Before this august panel on this eighth day of July, in the year of our Lord 1715, we have the case of Barbara Moore, barmaid; accused of witchery. More specifically of wanton flaunting of a particular bit of her quite awesome anatomy with the intent purpose of undermining the good moral fiber of the menfolk of the fair town of Cruxton. Her scandalous behavior, so it is charged, can only be seen as the evil work of the Devil.”
There followed a few moments of shifting about among the magistrates on the dais. Oldslave actually opened his eyes for an instant. Jollyrei appeared to be jotting down what looked like coffin measurements on a piece of paper. Twonines and Montycrusto grinned and winked luridly at one another, while Lord Wragg removed his hands from whatever they had been doing under the table to mop his brow and adjust his wig.
Rising from his seat, the Earl looked down on me and said, “What say you to these charges, Barbara Moore?”
“Rubbish!” I replied. “I’m as innocent as a newborn babe. If it’s guilt you want, gentlemen, look to yourselves!”
“I’ll record that as ‘not guilty’ interjected Bailiff Rodent officiously.
“You know, Miss Moore, We have ways of extracting the truth,” warned the Earl with a most serious look.
“Aren’t you concerned about whom I might name…” I began to reply before I was rudely cut off in mid-sentence.
“Enough!” roared Wragg. “Bailiff call in the guard and have this insolent little hussy removed and taken in fetters to the cellar chambers and tell Master @windar to use whatever torturous means he deems necessary to pry a true confession from her lips before this day is out. Gentlemen, we are adjourned until the morrow.”
And so I was taken away, and the louts who hauled me off were anything but gentle about it.
TBC
