Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Errol who??????
There's only one real Robin Hood
That's Carcasonne, not Nottingham in the background! That guy is clearly a French imposter!
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A Legendary Heroic Tale: They Say It Actually Happened in Nottingham in 1191
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
That's Carcasonne, not Nottingham in the background! That guy is clearly a French imposter!
Last edited:
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Loving this 'Carry On' moment, though I personally thought those burly, bearded guys fitted in pretty well
...
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
He is extremely busy for the moment. Team building, or something like that!And where is he now when she needs him?
Davec5299
Magistrate
View attachment 1412890 That's Carcasonne, not Nottingham in the background! That guy is clearly a French imposter!
It's a scandal!!!!
Someone has photoshopped a picture of Robin onto a different background! Luckily I have another, genuine Robin Hood photo outside the real Nottingham Castle.
Mikerytel
Senator
You type good stories @Barbaria1 . You should try writing erotic books under a pseudonym
Episode 04
Nottingham Market Square, near the noon hour, Saturday 15th June 1191
Friar Tuck squeezed his considerable bulk through the masses of people packing the market square to take up his designated post before the scaffold upon which the town’s whipping post stood.
Across the way and off to his right, he spotted Maid Marion, the lovely camp follower of obscure origins who always saw to it that she was the apple of Robin’s eye. Why she might want to play a role in Robin’s risky scheme to rescue the wayward daughter of a rich and ruthless landowner the likes of William Moore, and a potential rival as well, was beyond his ken. But then he never fully understood the ways of women nor, for that matter, the kinds of insanity that motivated Robin to undertake acts of personal danger. It was Tuck’s profound opinion that spending one’s days engaging in drink and debauchery was so much simpler, much more pleasant, and far less dangerous.
Looking about, he found that the High Sheriff’s men were in fact everywhere abundantly present. The nearest one wore a peasant woman’s garb, his unshaven face and uniform boots a dead giveaway. The good Friar smelled a trap and quickly gave a knowing nod to Alan-a-Dale, stationed off to the left of the scaffold, who promptly took up a tune on his minstrel’s lute, ostensively to entertain the crowd, but in fact to signal to Robin’s ‘band of merry men’ that a trap had been laid.
At the same moment, a commotion arose at the far end of the market square. The cart bearing Barbara had successfully negotiated the corner before St. Peter’s Church and was entering the square. And, as if by magic, the crowd, as in the fabled biblical tale of the Red Sea, parted to allow clear passage to the waiting scaffold and its whipping post.
And as the cart drew closer, and the cheerfully bawdy and fun-loving friar got a good first look at the High Sheriff’s wife, he quickly concluded that she indeed appeared to be a most desirable little morsel, and could well understand Robin’s partaking of her considerable charms as well as his desire to rescue her from the forty lashes it was said she’d been sentenced to receive.
************
For Barbara, as the cart trundled slowly towards its final destination, any further reflections on how she’d gotten herself into this mess were no longer possible. This was it. Time was nearly up.
The cart would soon arrive at its destination. And as soon as it came to a halt she’d be forced to mount that scaffold, where they would tie her to that big, ugly white post, strip her bare clear down to the waist … or worse … and administer forty lashes. Forty! My God! Forty! Far more than she thought she could ever possibly withstand!
****************
At the opposite side of the scaffolding the young Maid Marion frowned. She was not in the least bit happy about being there. She was angry with Robin … her Robin! … for taking it upon himself to go off that night to seduce this bitch … never mind the fact that doing so effectively humiliated Robin’s arch enemy, the High Sheriff. She could hardly have stopped him and had hoped that would be the end of it.
But she was even angrier now … now that a plan was to rescue the bitch from a whipping she surely deserved had been set in motion. A successful rescue was last thing Marion wanted. For, in her mind, rescuing and bringing the High Sheriff’s disgraced wife to the band’s encampment in Sherwood Forest would surely accomplish nothing more than to produce a potent rival for Robin’s attentions.
**************
Meanwhile, at the near side of the square, Barbara’s four sisters had perched themselves atop the counter of a merchant’s market stall … a choice vantage point from which to witness the proceedings, and for which they’d paid the man well.
They’d traveled together that morning, all the way from Cruxton, having every desire to see their wayward younger sister disgraced and publicly whipped. They weren’t about to miss this for the world.
“Here she comes now!” announced the eldest, pointing in the direction of the advancing cart.
“Just look at Barbara! Staring straight ahead like that. Hasn’t the good sense to be scared to death and beg for mercy, I suspect,” observed another.
“Pity, father couldn’t witness this,” added a third. “But he refused to come.”
“I tried to persuade him,” laughed the fourth. “But all he had to say was, ‘once you’ve seen one hussy whipped at the post, you’ve seen it all. As usual, our Barbara deserves whatever she gets. The High Sheriff has every right to punish her severely for her infidelity.’
“Do you think there’ll be blood?” asked the third, a note of excitement in her voice.
“Forty lashes! I dare say so!” Laughed the eldest. “They’re likely to hear our Barbara screaming and cursing clear back in Cruxton!”
“Let’s wave at her to let her know we’re here!” enthused the second sister.
“Deliciously cruel!” Agreed the eldest, smiling grimly.
***************
From a privileged vantage point of a different kind, the town’s executioner was also tracking the progress of the advancing cart. Standing at the very edge of the scaffold, bare-chested and hooded with arms akimbo, he studied the fast approaching miscreant to whom he was charged with applying the lash.
He was a man who took professional pride in his work … be it a public beheading, hanging or … as on this day … a bared back whipping. For the most part he much preferred hangings, as they were less taxing physically and bloodless. But a good whipping … especially if it was of an attractive woman … was nothing to be shunned.
His orders, coming directly from the High Sheriff himself, were to administer forty lashes, well laid on. An excessive number, he thought to himself, as his practiced eye took measure of the relatively small and rather slender young woman standing so stiffly upright in the cart as it bounced and swayed from side to side on its slow traverse over the unevenness of the square’s paving stones.
He could well imagine that it would require all his skill to fit as many forty lashes in, and quite likely there would be a need to lower her shift far down her hips, or beyond, in order to expose sufficient skin … not an unwelcome prospect! Surely one to delight the crowd.
He imagined himself delivering the forty, ten at a time and at a steady deliberate pace … giving her a chance to recover and recompose herself between each stroke. He’d even allow her time between each ten to recover and steel herself for the next ten.
Such deliberate pacing, as he well knew, was desirable, not only to keep her going throughout the entire ordeal, but also to keep the crowd highly entertained. That was part of his job too. They’d not come to be bored. They had expectations, and his reputation depended on delivering exactly what they’d come to witness.
He’d already selected the instrument he’d use … a long leather braided whip with a knotted end that would wrap around her side and dig into her softer bits. That whip lay ready for him, soaking in a bucket of brine set alongside the post.
The post too was in readiness … freshly whitewashed and rinsed of blood and soil, its twin pair of iron cuffs suspended from a bolt at its very top on chains carefully adjusted to dangle the cuffs at what he judged to be just the right height for maximum affect and viewing.
And finally, he checked to see that there were three oaken buckets of cold water standing by for the purpose of reviving her, should she faint or, barring that, for each interval between the delivery of ten lashes. He knew perfectly well though, from experience, that she’d likely never make it through forty lashes without fainting at least once. Probably more. And nothing, of course, delighted a crowd more, when an attractive young female was whipped, than a good faint.
Yes, he was ready for this!
The cart had rolled to a stop before the scaffolding. And as it did, she’d looked up, first at him and then at the post with its ominously dangling pair of iron cuffs, closed her eyes, bowed her head and visibly trembled.
She, as could be expected, was clearly in dread of what was about to transpire.
TBC ***
Nottingham Market Square, near the noon hour, Saturday 15th June 1191
Friar Tuck squeezed his considerable bulk through the masses of people packing the market square to take up his designated post before the scaffold upon which the town’s whipping post stood.
Across the way and off to his right, he spotted Maid Marion, the lovely camp follower of obscure origins who always saw to it that she was the apple of Robin’s eye. Why she might want to play a role in Robin’s risky scheme to rescue the wayward daughter of a rich and ruthless landowner the likes of William Moore, and a potential rival as well, was beyond his ken. But then he never fully understood the ways of women nor, for that matter, the kinds of insanity that motivated Robin to undertake acts of personal danger. It was Tuck’s profound opinion that spending one’s days engaging in drink and debauchery was so much simpler, much more pleasant, and far less dangerous.
Looking about, he found that the High Sheriff’s men were in fact everywhere abundantly present. The nearest one wore a peasant woman’s garb, his unshaven face and uniform boots a dead giveaway. The good Friar smelled a trap and quickly gave a knowing nod to Alan-a-Dale, stationed off to the left of the scaffold, who promptly took up a tune on his minstrel’s lute, ostensively to entertain the crowd, but in fact to signal to Robin’s ‘band of merry men’ that a trap had been laid.
At the same moment, a commotion arose at the far end of the market square. The cart bearing Barbara had successfully negotiated the corner before St. Peter’s Church and was entering the square. And, as if by magic, the crowd, as in the fabled biblical tale of the Red Sea, parted to allow clear passage to the waiting scaffold and its whipping post.
And as the cart drew closer, and the cheerfully bawdy and fun-loving friar got a good first look at the High Sheriff’s wife, he quickly concluded that she indeed appeared to be a most desirable little morsel, and could well understand Robin’s partaking of her considerable charms as well as his desire to rescue her from the forty lashes it was said she’d been sentenced to receive.
************
For Barbara, as the cart trundled slowly towards its final destination, any further reflections on how she’d gotten herself into this mess were no longer possible. This was it. Time was nearly up.
The cart would soon arrive at its destination. And as soon as it came to a halt she’d be forced to mount that scaffold, where they would tie her to that big, ugly white post, strip her bare clear down to the waist … or worse … and administer forty lashes. Forty! My God! Forty! Far more than she thought she could ever possibly withstand!
****************
At the opposite side of the scaffolding the young Maid Marion frowned. She was not in the least bit happy about being there. She was angry with Robin … her Robin! … for taking it upon himself to go off that night to seduce this bitch … never mind the fact that doing so effectively humiliated Robin’s arch enemy, the High Sheriff. She could hardly have stopped him and had hoped that would be the end of it.
But she was even angrier now … now that a plan was to rescue the bitch from a whipping she surely deserved had been set in motion. A successful rescue was last thing Marion wanted. For, in her mind, rescuing and bringing the High Sheriff’s disgraced wife to the band’s encampment in Sherwood Forest would surely accomplish nothing more than to produce a potent rival for Robin’s attentions.
**************
Meanwhile, at the near side of the square, Barbara’s four sisters had perched themselves atop the counter of a merchant’s market stall … a choice vantage point from which to witness the proceedings, and for which they’d paid the man well.
They’d traveled together that morning, all the way from Cruxton, having every desire to see their wayward younger sister disgraced and publicly whipped. They weren’t about to miss this for the world.
“Here she comes now!” announced the eldest, pointing in the direction of the advancing cart.
“Just look at Barbara! Staring straight ahead like that. Hasn’t the good sense to be scared to death and beg for mercy, I suspect,” observed another.
“Pity, father couldn’t witness this,” added a third. “But he refused to come.”
“I tried to persuade him,” laughed the fourth. “But all he had to say was, ‘once you’ve seen one hussy whipped at the post, you’ve seen it all. As usual, our Barbara deserves whatever she gets. The High Sheriff has every right to punish her severely for her infidelity.’
“Do you think there’ll be blood?” asked the third, a note of excitement in her voice.
“Forty lashes! I dare say so!” Laughed the eldest. “They’re likely to hear our Barbara screaming and cursing clear back in Cruxton!”
“Let’s wave at her to let her know we’re here!” enthused the second sister.
“Deliciously cruel!” Agreed the eldest, smiling grimly.
***************
From a privileged vantage point of a different kind, the town’s executioner was also tracking the progress of the advancing cart. Standing at the very edge of the scaffold, bare-chested and hooded with arms akimbo, he studied the fast approaching miscreant to whom he was charged with applying the lash.
He was a man who took professional pride in his work … be it a public beheading, hanging or … as on this day … a bared back whipping. For the most part he much preferred hangings, as they were less taxing physically and bloodless. But a good whipping … especially if it was of an attractive woman … was nothing to be shunned.
His orders, coming directly from the High Sheriff himself, were to administer forty lashes, well laid on. An excessive number, he thought to himself, as his practiced eye took measure of the relatively small and rather slender young woman standing so stiffly upright in the cart as it bounced and swayed from side to side on its slow traverse over the unevenness of the square’s paving stones.
He could well imagine that it would require all his skill to fit as many forty lashes in, and quite likely there would be a need to lower her shift far down her hips, or beyond, in order to expose sufficient skin … not an unwelcome prospect! Surely one to delight the crowd.
He imagined himself delivering the forty, ten at a time and at a steady deliberate pace … giving her a chance to recover and recompose herself between each stroke. He’d even allow her time between each ten to recover and steel herself for the next ten.
Such deliberate pacing, as he well knew, was desirable, not only to keep her going throughout the entire ordeal, but also to keep the crowd highly entertained. That was part of his job too. They’d not come to be bored. They had expectations, and his reputation depended on delivering exactly what they’d come to witness.
He’d already selected the instrument he’d use … a long leather braided whip with a knotted end that would wrap around her side and dig into her softer bits. That whip lay ready for him, soaking in a bucket of brine set alongside the post.
The post too was in readiness … freshly whitewashed and rinsed of blood and soil, its twin pair of iron cuffs suspended from a bolt at its very top on chains carefully adjusted to dangle the cuffs at what he judged to be just the right height for maximum affect and viewing.
And finally, he checked to see that there were three oaken buckets of cold water standing by for the purpose of reviving her, should she faint or, barring that, for each interval between the delivery of ten lashes. He knew perfectly well though, from experience, that she’d likely never make it through forty lashes without fainting at least once. Probably more. And nothing, of course, delighted a crowd more, when an attractive young female was whipped, than a good faint.
Yes, he was ready for this!
The cart had rolled to a stop before the scaffolding. And as it did, she’d looked up, first at him and then at the post with its ominously dangling pair of iron cuffs, closed her eyes, bowed her head and visibly trembled.
She, as could be expected, was clearly in dread of what was about to transpire.
TBC ***
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
That's the best and most apt description of the comely Maid that I have ever read!
And of the rotund 'man of God'
A journey indeed!
Another excellent piece far closer to what I am sure is the true tale of Robin Hood as opposed to the many variations that come to our screens!
Stungiskhan
Magistrate
If I remember the story correctly, wasn’t Marion sheriff’s bride, while not by her free will. Could this be just a quirk on interpretation of old writings.
I’d like to think she was actually Marion, and to brake her, it took much more than few lashes, as the sheriffs men claimed. I think they played with her for hours, giving a proper treatment for every bit and nook of her young and beautiful body, and on the following public flogging, everyone can witness her high resolve and secret attraction towards the lash.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
The good old Catholic vocation!
I thought that a band sneaking into town, disguised as women, was Robin Hood's tactics?
'Worse', probably, in that era. The more modest 'down to waist' was only introduced centuries later!
And what is more dangerous than an annoyed wife threatened by a rival?
Family!
Serious? A whipping post should not be whitewashed, but left with the blood and dirt on it! Much more intimidating for its next customer when shackled to it! Where did they find that executioner? in Switzerland!
We shall impatiently wait, and meanwhile have a beer in the pub opposite to Saint Peter's church,View attachment 1413040 *** there will now be a short intermission while I work out what happens next.
As always, I’m making it up as I go. And I need a little time to think.
while you continue writing your chronicle!That last episode was well edited!
Davec5299
Magistrate
View attachment 1413040 *** there will now be a short intermission while I work out what happens next.
Barb's on the RyanAir website,
Searching for Robin's Nottingham flight.
It's looking quite dicey,
The seats are too pricey.
Will Robin get back for the fight?
Hey! Seriously!Serious? A whipping post should not be whitewashed, but left with the blood and dirt on it! Much more intimidating for its next customer when shackled to it! Where did they find that executioner? in Switzerland!
This is no smutty porn tale! I’m trying to keep things squeaky clean here, hoping the rights will be picked up by a major Hollywood studio.
$$$$$$$$
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Hollywood!? Squeaky clean?
Scaffold and pole in pink, cart in pink, Robin Hood and his gang dressed in pink, pink trees in Sherwood Forest,....
Go for it, "Barbie"! No, I would try Pachamama Films, for the sake of authenticity!
A master of disguise....
You can choose your friends, but you're bloody well stuck with your family...
Slow down, Neddy! Is there a reverse gear on this thing?I need a little time to think.
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Sett …this is a wonderful illustration… I love the detailing. So much to take in. … even the lute player!
