A Legendary Heroic Tale: They Say It Actually Happened in Nottingham in 1191
Episode 01.
Nottingham Castle, Thursday, 13 June 1191.
With a grim frown clouding his face, the High Sheriff descended the foot-worn stone steps leading down to the castle dungeon. It was late at night, and he’d have preferred to be in bed with some peasant wench, but the issue could not wait. It simply had to be attended to.
Muttering darkly to himself, he followed the narrow passageway, passing by the dingy cells that lined it. Flickering tarred torches mounted on the walls lit the way.
From the occupants of the individual cells came a cacophony of groans and moans, and the occasional plea for help. The stench of human waste assaulted his nose.
At the end of the long passageway he reached the heavy oaken door that led to the dungeon’s torture chambers. The doorkeeper, a stout man, who’d been dozing while seated against the wall, looked up with a start. Scrambling clumsily to his feet he hastily attempted a bow that nearly sent him sprawling.
“M’Lord!” he uttered, taking care to affect the appropriate tone of deference.
“Where is she?”
“Come, I’ll take you to her. I believe they’ve put her to the rack. I hear she’s been rather obstinate.”
“Hardly surprising. Lead on.”
“Yes, m’Lord. Follow me.”
“The chambers they passed by were empty. The tools of daily terror and persuasion silent, save for in the chamber at the far end, from which a woman’s shrill cry split the otherwise surrounding silence.”
“They have her in the last chamber …,” said the doorkeeper unnecessarily.
“Apparently so ….”
“It’s the one equipped with the big torture rack …”
“I see …”
“Does m’Lord wish that I announce the High Sheriff of Nottingham’s arrival.”
“No. That ‘s hardly necessary. Just get out of my way.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
Brushing the doorkeeper brusquely aside he slipped unnoticed into the chamber, and swiftly took in the scene. He found himself facing the heavy wooden torture rack to which the doorkeeper had referred. It was tilted at an incline, and she … his bride of less than four days … lay stretched out upon it.
He was assaulted by the intensely stifling warmth of the chamber, contrasting sharply with that of the spaces he’d traversed to get there. Several braziers filled with glowing hot coals generated the heat, as well as the acrid fumes that assaulted and stung his nose and eyes.
Surrounding the rack were three men … bare-chested and muscular … all of whom, sensing his presence, looked up from their labors. One was positioned at the ratcheted cranking mechanism that operated the rack. Another held a braided leather whip in his hand. The third, who appeared to be in charge of the proceedings, straightened up from where he had been leaning over her and turned to face him.
“Welcome m’Lord. You’ve come, no doubt, to learn of any progress and observe our methods?” the man said without a moment’s hesitation.
He gave no reply, stepping past the man instead to get a closer view. She was stark naked … and beautiful as always … even in her present condition.
The man with the whip, perhaps sensing that some modest decorum was needed … quickly laid a tattered piece of cloth … recognizable as a scrap of the gown she’d been wearing earlier that day … over her lewdly exposed pudendum.
It was quite obvious that her racking was as yet in the early stages. While fully stretched out, and under some strain … she’d just screamed, hadn’t she? … she seemed rather calm and composed. Though, he could well see that she was breathing heavily … her chest rising and falling rapidly … her mounded breasts wobbling about enticingly, each jauntily adorned with a perky pink nipple encircled by its pebbled aureola. Her pale skin was sheened in sweat, bits of her reddish-toned brown hair plastered to her forehead.
But the true source of the scream he’d overheard earlier, he quickly surmised, was not so much a response to a stretching that had not as yet progressed very much, but to the sharp bite of the whip. For across her tautly flattened abdomen, three reddened lash lines were visible. One crossing just above the navel, the other two below, extending to and wrapping around the edge of her far hip.
His gaze returned to her face, jaw set, eyes closed … lovely even under stress. She’d not seemed to take notice of his presence as of yet … possibly because she was doing everything she possibly could within her mind to transport herself far away from the scene.
“Resume what you were doing,” he said quietly to the three watching him expectantly.
“Yes, m’Lord,” they chorused.
“Tell us who he is!” Who’s your illicit lover?” demanded the team leader, roughly gripping her chin and leaning into her face.
She opened her eyes, shook her head in refusal, and closed them again.
“Stretch her out further and deliver three more lashes!”
His henchmen moved swiftly to obey. The rack’s ratchet mechanism clicked over three additional notches, while the brute wielding the whip laid three quick strokes across the yielding softness of the underside of her bare breasts.
She screamed again and again and again, each one ear-piercingly shrill and loud … her cries reverberating off the chamber’s vaulted stone ceiling.
How could she? He mused as he witnessed her agony. How could she, his bride, engage in infidelity within but a few days of their marriage? Such behavior might be perfectly acceptable for men like himself and, of course, by low-born women … but not by someone like his Barbara, daughter of William Moore, an Earl, no less, and perhaps one of the wealthiest men in the shire.
Unacceptable, yes totally unacceptable, he told himself, eyes closed, as she refused to talk, and the ratchet mechanism clicked thrice once again. And the dull sound of leather slapping against bare female flesh filled his ears. And as she screamed more shrilly than he believed possible.
He’d seen enough. Turning abruptly on his heel, he left the chamber, walking briskly, the doorkeeper scrambling to keep up.
She’ll talk soon enough, he assured himself. What was there to deny? They’d pry the truth from her before too long.
It was all such a mystery. He’d come to their bed chamber the night before, unexpectedly early he had to admit. And there she was, lying naked in their bed, stains on the bedding, her cunt oozing cum, someone else’s cum, not his! Someone who had obviously fled, presumably in a panic, at the first sounds of his arrival home.
He’d get the bastard, he vowed. And when he did, he’d see that they both paid … she and he, whom ever he might be … only then could his honor be restored.
TBC
Episode 01.
Nottingham Castle, Thursday, 13 June 1191.
With a grim frown clouding his face, the High Sheriff descended the foot-worn stone steps leading down to the castle dungeon. It was late at night, and he’d have preferred to be in bed with some peasant wench, but the issue could not wait. It simply had to be attended to.
Muttering darkly to himself, he followed the narrow passageway, passing by the dingy cells that lined it. Flickering tarred torches mounted on the walls lit the way.
From the occupants of the individual cells came a cacophony of groans and moans, and the occasional plea for help. The stench of human waste assaulted his nose.
At the end of the long passageway he reached the heavy oaken door that led to the dungeon’s torture chambers. The doorkeeper, a stout man, who’d been dozing while seated against the wall, looked up with a start. Scrambling clumsily to his feet he hastily attempted a bow that nearly sent him sprawling.
“M’Lord!” he uttered, taking care to affect the appropriate tone of deference.
“Where is she?”
“Come, I’ll take you to her. I believe they’ve put her to the rack. I hear she’s been rather obstinate.”
“Hardly surprising. Lead on.”
“Yes, m’Lord. Follow me.”
“The chambers they passed by were empty. The tools of daily terror and persuasion silent, save for in the chamber at the far end, from which a woman’s shrill cry split the otherwise surrounding silence.”
“They have her in the last chamber …,” said the doorkeeper unnecessarily.
“Apparently so ….”
“It’s the one equipped with the big torture rack …”
“I see …”
“Does m’Lord wish that I announce the High Sheriff of Nottingham’s arrival.”
“No. That ‘s hardly necessary. Just get out of my way.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
Brushing the doorkeeper brusquely aside he slipped unnoticed into the chamber, and swiftly took in the scene. He found himself facing the heavy wooden torture rack to which the doorkeeper had referred. It was tilted at an incline, and she … his bride of less than four days … lay stretched out upon it.
He was assaulted by the intensely stifling warmth of the chamber, contrasting sharply with that of the spaces he’d traversed to get there. Several braziers filled with glowing hot coals generated the heat, as well as the acrid fumes that assaulted and stung his nose and eyes.
Surrounding the rack were three men … bare-chested and muscular … all of whom, sensing his presence, looked up from their labors. One was positioned at the ratcheted cranking mechanism that operated the rack. Another held a braided leather whip in his hand. The third, who appeared to be in charge of the proceedings, straightened up from where he had been leaning over her and turned to face him.
“Welcome m’Lord. You’ve come, no doubt, to learn of any progress and observe our methods?” the man said without a moment’s hesitation.
He gave no reply, stepping past the man instead to get a closer view. She was stark naked … and beautiful as always … even in her present condition.
The man with the whip, perhaps sensing that some modest decorum was needed … quickly laid a tattered piece of cloth … recognizable as a scrap of the gown she’d been wearing earlier that day … over her lewdly exposed pudendum.
It was quite obvious that her racking was as yet in the early stages. While fully stretched out, and under some strain … she’d just screamed, hadn’t she? … she seemed rather calm and composed. Though, he could well see that she was breathing heavily … her chest rising and falling rapidly … her mounded breasts wobbling about enticingly, each jauntily adorned with a perky pink nipple encircled by its pebbled aureola. Her pale skin was sheened in sweat, bits of her reddish-toned brown hair plastered to her forehead.
But the true source of the scream he’d overheard earlier, he quickly surmised, was not so much a response to a stretching that had not as yet progressed very much, but to the sharp bite of the whip. For across her tautly flattened abdomen, three reddened lash lines were visible. One crossing just above the navel, the other two below, extending to and wrapping around the edge of her far hip.
His gaze returned to her face, jaw set, eyes closed … lovely even under stress. She’d not seemed to take notice of his presence as of yet … possibly because she was doing everything she possibly could within her mind to transport herself far away from the scene.
“Resume what you were doing,” he said quietly to the three watching him expectantly.
“Yes, m’Lord,” they chorused.
“Tell us who he is!” Who’s your illicit lover?” demanded the team leader, roughly gripping her chin and leaning into her face.
She opened her eyes, shook her head in refusal, and closed them again.
“Stretch her out further and deliver three more lashes!”
His henchmen moved swiftly to obey. The rack’s ratchet mechanism clicked over three additional notches, while the brute wielding the whip laid three quick strokes across the yielding softness of the underside of her bare breasts.
She screamed again and again and again, each one ear-piercingly shrill and loud … her cries reverberating off the chamber’s vaulted stone ceiling.
How could she? He mused as he witnessed her agony. How could she, his bride, engage in infidelity within but a few days of their marriage? Such behavior might be perfectly acceptable for men like himself and, of course, by low-born women … but not by someone like his Barbara, daughter of William Moore, an Earl, no less, and perhaps one of the wealthiest men in the shire.
Unacceptable, yes totally unacceptable, he told himself, eyes closed, as she refused to talk, and the ratchet mechanism clicked thrice once again. And the dull sound of leather slapping against bare female flesh filled his ears. And as she screamed more shrilly than he believed possible.
He’d seen enough. Turning abruptly on his heel, he left the chamber, walking briskly, the doorkeeper scrambling to keep up.
She’ll talk soon enough, he assured himself. What was there to deny? They’d pry the truth from her before too long.
It was all such a mystery. He’d come to their bed chamber the night before, unexpectedly early he had to admit. And there she was, lying naked in their bed, stains on the bedding, her cunt oozing cum, someone else’s cum, not his! Someone who had obviously fled, presumably in a panic, at the first sounds of his arrival home.
He’d get the bastard, he vowed. And when he did, he’d see that they both paid … she and he, whom ever he might be … only then could his honor be restored.
TBC
