Episode 36
Some in the crowd gasp in sympathy with her pain. Many more roar their approval as Barbara's cross is pulled fully upright. I am sure many watching are themselves erect and hard like the cross, aroused to see this naked woman struggling for life in front of them. Arms wide as if to embrace them. Thighs open as if to receive them. Every man's imagination is enthralled by her, she is crucified for each and every one and his lustful thoughts.
I have myself lay between her bound open thighs, I have tasted her body, and to see her now nailed and writhing so close to me creates some conflict within me. I am a man, and of course my body responds to hers. I feel it even while racked with guilt for not having saved her. I feel my flesh respond to the sight and sound of her, even while I am disgusted by the spectacle of her execution.
Sunlight glints on her already sweat drenched skin. I am amazed at how beautiful she looks!
Beautiful and bare, arms and legs working to raise her higher, belly tight stretched, chest heaving for breath.
What power does a man have in the face of such a sight?
Dull thuds echo around the walls as her head is tossed back, once, twice, three times cracking on the wood behind her, as if this one movement is the only way she can react to the agony that overwhelms her, the only way she can take back some small element of control.
It is not enough.
All that terrible pressure on those wrists and feet takes its toll. Every movement, every struggle is fire around the nails, torn flesh and unbearable agony. But Barbara is committed, there is no avoiding this ordeal. The agony must be born, the terrible pain must be shouldered, there is no avoiding it. There is no escape.
Again and again she shudders to exert herself, rising on the nails to look for relief, to expand her lungs, to try and find a position where the agony is less extreme. She no longer screams, that was the shock of the nails. There is no shock now, just a sharp and never ending fire that never goes away. She no longer screams, but she groans, gasps, cries out with effort.
And yet still she is beautiful. Her suspended body has a dramatic tension which highlights her figure. Her breasts move hypnotically, tumescent nipples tipped with sweat, thrust forward above her tightly accentuated rib cage. Smooth and shapely thighs flex and strain, and the curve of her arse rubs erotically against the wooden upright. On her face the initial mask of agony gradually gives way to an almost serene and stoic beauty.
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As the hours pass many of the catcalls and crude jokes give way to wonder and quiet appreciation. This is not a simple execution. Such extreme cruelty and endurance has transformed this experience into something almost spiritual. Yes the blood, sweat and indignity is still present, the body and spirit slowly broken before our eyes. But the woman before us has captured us with her suffering. Many of us remain here to accompany her on this final journey, not just to gloat in her humiliation and death. It is a mixed crowd that watches her last hours, as her movements become slow, her breathing ever more shallow. We wait for the inevitable.
It has been many hours now. Quite a few have left, but plenty remain. The Abbot and his men are still here, gloating. Many times Arnaud has looked as if he would touch her, but drawn back for fear of impropriety. The lust has never stopped burning in his eyes, but Barbara's quiet dignity has undermined his pleasure at her fate. It has been difficult for me to stay here and watch her decline, difficult but necessary. Several times she asked for water, but the Abbot declined her.
Parched and fading, she looks at me once more, with forgiveness and regret and a request. She asks for release, and it is enough for me. Without seeking his leave I stride past the Abbot and his men. I draw my sword, meet her eyes one last time, seeing her willingness, her farewell, her hope for a better afterlife. One thrust, up under the ribs, into her dear heart. Her body slumps with a sigh, as I release her soul to find a better place beyond.
.....not a fitting end for Barbara de Moore.
