1. THE TUMBRIL
The tumbril lurches, groans and creaks as it negotiates the unevenly paved cobblestone lane on its crude wooden axles. I struggle to keep my balance, steadying myself as best I can against the front-side railing. An escort of grim-faced helmeted men, with long pikes in hand and flaming red sashes drawn over their tunics, flank the tumbril on either side. A man with a drum leads the procession, rapping out a steady rattling beat.
Along the way streams of people emerge from doorways, shops, side streets and alleys to join the gathering boisterous throng that trails the slowly moving cart and its armed escort, while others lean out of the open upper-story windows of overhanging, half-timbered houses. Everyone wants to take a gander at the condemned, bare-chested young woman on her way to the town market square for public execution.
They stare scornfully, but also curiously, as I pass by … fascinated at the sight of my bare breasts swaying and jiggling with each lurch of the cart ... certainly a rarely seen and remarkable public spectacle for the prudish citizenry of our town. The men snigger, leer and make jokes at my expense; the women scowl and glare at their menfolk reproachfully.
I stand as tall and proud as I can and try to look straight ahead, clutching at the swaying tumbril railing with my rope-bound hands, the tattered remains of my clothing draped around and hanging down from my slender hips, long brown hair spread over my bare shoulders and down my back, it's reddish highlights catching the morning sun.
It's the summer of 1645, and the Witch Finder General has just come to town ... in this, the second year of his fateful quest to rid the kingdom once and for all of the evils of witchery and the works of the devil. Proclamations had been posted early yesterday morning, inviting good citizens to report any suspicions they might have of witchcraft among neighbors, friends and acquaintances, even family.
I paid little heed to such foolishness. But I should have worried about the two old spinsters next door, who were known to spend their days spying on their neighbors.
They came for me in the middle of the night, carrying flaming torches, pounding loudly on the shop entrance door down on the ground floor.
Our man servant let them in. They brusquely pushed past him, and past my protesting father and mother on the stairway leading up to the family living quarters.
I stumbled out of bed in my night clothes, threw a shawl over my shoulders, burst out of my room and ran straight into the arms of a burly man, who immediately grabbed me by the arms, pinning them behind my back and spinning me around.
"Are you Barbara Moore?" growled a second man in a red skull cap and long flowing ecclesiastical gown. A large medallion, on his chest, flashed in the shimmering torch light.
I nodded.
"Then come with us!"
TO BE CONTINUED
The tumbril lurches, groans and creaks as it negotiates the unevenly paved cobblestone lane on its crude wooden axles. I struggle to keep my balance, steadying myself as best I can against the front-side railing. An escort of grim-faced helmeted men, with long pikes in hand and flaming red sashes drawn over their tunics, flank the tumbril on either side. A man with a drum leads the procession, rapping out a steady rattling beat.
Along the way streams of people emerge from doorways, shops, side streets and alleys to join the gathering boisterous throng that trails the slowly moving cart and its armed escort, while others lean out of the open upper-story windows of overhanging, half-timbered houses. Everyone wants to take a gander at the condemned, bare-chested young woman on her way to the town market square for public execution.
They stare scornfully, but also curiously, as I pass by … fascinated at the sight of my bare breasts swaying and jiggling with each lurch of the cart ... certainly a rarely seen and remarkable public spectacle for the prudish citizenry of our town. The men snigger, leer and make jokes at my expense; the women scowl and glare at their menfolk reproachfully.
I stand as tall and proud as I can and try to look straight ahead, clutching at the swaying tumbril railing with my rope-bound hands, the tattered remains of my clothing draped around and hanging down from my slender hips, long brown hair spread over my bare shoulders and down my back, it's reddish highlights catching the morning sun.
It's the summer of 1645, and the Witch Finder General has just come to town ... in this, the second year of his fateful quest to rid the kingdom once and for all of the evils of witchery and the works of the devil. Proclamations had been posted early yesterday morning, inviting good citizens to report any suspicions they might have of witchcraft among neighbors, friends and acquaintances, even family.
I paid little heed to such foolishness. But I should have worried about the two old spinsters next door, who were known to spend their days spying on their neighbors.
They came for me in the middle of the night, carrying flaming torches, pounding loudly on the shop entrance door down on the ground floor.
Our man servant let them in. They brusquely pushed past him, and past my protesting father and mother on the stairway leading up to the family living quarters.
I stumbled out of bed in my night clothes, threw a shawl over my shoulders, burst out of my room and ran straight into the arms of a burly man, who immediately grabbed me by the arms, pinning them behind my back and spinning me around.
"Are you Barbara Moore?" growled a second man in a red skull cap and long flowing ecclesiastical gown. A large medallion, on his chest, flashed in the shimmering torch light.
I nodded.
"Then come with us!"
TO BE CONTINUED
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