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INNOCENT CORINNA by Jennifer Jane Pope writing as Faith Eden |
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INNOCENT CORINNA by Jennifer Jane Pope writing as Faith Eden |
Like many villages, this one boasted a whipping post. It was not something frequently seen in the larger towns in these so-called enlightened times, but out in the countryside, old traditions died hard. Petty criminals met with swift and summary justice at these posts and there was also a pillory and a set of stocks in this village, normally reserved for the most trifling offenders.
Usually, Savatch knew, these ageing relics of a bygone age remained in place more as a deterrent than anything else, though it was curious how the artefacts were always maintained in a state of excellent repair. On this day in Horyx Ford, however, it seemed that the dedication of the local craftsmen was to be put to good use.
He spurred his horse into a trot and picked his way down the gentle incline. As he approached the knot of villagers, one or two heads turned in his direction. He raised an arm in salute and addressed himself to a burly fellow, whose leather apron proclaimed him to be the local blacksmith.
`Hail, friend!' Savatch called out. `What sport today?' He nodded towards where several stocky village women were holding a younger wench between them. Her hands had been bound behind her and a leather collar buckled about her neck, from which four thick thongs radiated out to the hands of her captors. The girl's dark hair was tangled and matted and there was grime on her face and on her tattered clothes.
`No sport, stranger,' the smithy growled. `Yon wench is a thieving harlot. She's bedded at least four of the young men of the village and used the opportunity to steal from their parents' homes.'
`A terrible crime indeed,' Savatch sympathised. `And what is to be her punishment?'
`Twelve lashes,' the other replied, grimly. `Trouble is, not one man here is prepared to take on the duty, so it'll have to be one of the women. The girl will escape lightly.' Savatch's gaze travelled to where another of the women stood slightly to one side. In her hand, she held a loosely coiled drover's whip.
`Not so lightly, I think,' he said. His lip curled at one side. `What about your good self, smithy?' he challenged. `Aren't you man enough to lash the slut?' The big man shook his head, morosely.
`Not I,' he said. `My wife would slit my vittals whilst I slept, if I were to lay a finger on any woman.' Savatch looked about the crowd.
`Your wife isn't here, I presume?' The blacksmith shook his head.
`No, she's taken herself off to the next village to visit her sister. She doesn't hold with all this. But she'd find out soon enough if I were to take up that whip.'
`Perhaps you should take it to her,' Savatch suggested, with a loud laugh. The blacksmith's expression betrayed that he did not think this such a bad idea, but Savatch new the likelihood of such a thing ever happening was about as remote as he himself becoming a priest. He leaned forward in his saddle and studied the girl more closely.
`I imagine she's quite presentable, 'neath all that dirt,' he said. The blacksmith shrugged.
`I've seen worse,' he said. Savatch nodded and stroked his chin.
`I have a suggestion, friend,' he said, slowly. `It could solve all your problems and it might help me with mine.' The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. Savatch continued. `I'll whip your slut for you,' he offered. `It won't be the first time, either.'
`And then?' the big man asked, his eyes full of suspicion. `Then you'll be wanting a fee, I suppose? Well, this is a poor village and there's little enough spare to feed hungry mouths.'
`The girl herself will be my fee,' Savatch said, smoothly. `I'll take her off your hands in lieu of a fee. I need a servant and she will do fine, once her stripes heal. You can make it official, if you like. The village elders need only change her sentence to, say, six lashes and substitute two years labour for the other six. I'll even throw in five crowns in gold, if you like.'
It was an offer, it seemed, far too good for the village to refuse. The girl, an orphan of about nineteen, had been trouble for years and the thought of seeing the back of her, especially a back that had been expertly whipped, was received with delight all round. Very quickly, the elders, of whom the smithy, Gurdan, was one, drew up the necessary paperwork. All this while, the girl, whose name was Helda, remained sullenly within her circle of escorts, who continued to torment her by jerking her back and forth every now and then.
When the legalities had been completed, Savatch turned to two burly young villagers, lads whose ruddy complexions told of many long hours in the fields already, plus the sort of strength that comes with such arduous labour.
`Put her up on the post,' he said. Stand her on a meal sack first and use these on her wrists.' From his saddlebag, he produced two wide leather manacles, to each of which was fixed a stout metal ring. `I don't mind a girl with a striped back,' he explained, `but hanging with ropes about her wrists could damage her hands for all time. Fat use a servant girl with no hands.'
The whipping post itself was shaped like a letter T, from two thick timber poles, the upright of which had been driven deep into the ground. Someone produced a full meal sack and the girl was led forward. Seeing that the waiting was over, she began to struggle, but the collar made resistance futile and she was dragged up to the sack with little problem. The women kept hold of their lines, whilst the two young labourers cut through the thongs that bound Helda's wrists.
Savatch nodded his approval as the leather straps were buckled into place and lengths of rope knotted through the rings. The ropes were then thrown over the ends of the horizontal post and the young men hauled on them until the unfortunate Helda was standing on tiptoe on the meal sack, her arms stretched high and wide.
`Take the sack from under her,' Savatch instructed. One of the youths stooped and dragged the support clear, leaving the girl hanging with her full weight on her arms and drawing a cry of anguish from her gaping mouth. Savatch turned back to his saddlebag and withdrew another strap, this time much thinner and considerably longer. At its centre, a wad of stuffed leather had been affixed.
`Use this,' he said, tossing it to the taller youth. `It'll save her biting through her tongue at the same time as stifling the worst of her noise. Make sure you buckle it tight, lad. We don't want her spitting it out.' As the fellow approached her, Helda kicked out, her bare foot catching him on the inside of his thigh. He gave a cry of alarm and jumped back. Savatch laughed and pointed at another length of rope that lay near the foot of the post.
`Tie her ankles with that, you dolt,' he said. `Just wind it around the post tight enough to hold her, but don't cut the blood from her feet. She'll need to be fit to walk before nightfall.'
At last the girl hung ready for him, arms straining, feet securely pinioned to the timber, her mouth stretched wide by the cruel gag. Savatch stepped forward, produced a wicked looking knife from its sheath beneath his tunic and turned to the expectant crowd. `
I'll want a bowl of warm salt water and some fresh clothing for the slut,' he said. `I'll give a half gold crown for two skirts, two shirts and a pair of sandals.' He turned back to the helpless Helda and, with one swift slash, opened the back of her already ripped blouse, exposing her pale brown skin to the watching eyes. Resheathing the knife, he used his bare hands to tear away the remaining remnants of cloth, revealing a pair of well rounded breasts, pressing one against each side of the upright. There was a low murmur of male voices from among the villagers.
Stepping back, Savatch held out his hand to the girl who held the whip. She passed it to him with a grim smile and he wondered if hers had been one of the families from whom Helda had stolen. Something told him that it was.
He examined the whip briefly, paid it out onto the dusty ground in front of him and then, with a deft flick of the wrist and a jerk of the arm, sent the rawhide hissing through the air. The leather landed squarely across the middle of the hanging girl's shoulders and, despite her gag, her scream of agony sent a flock of small birds fluttering skywards from the nearby group of trees.
Again, the whip snaked out, this time landing precisely one inch below the red welt that had already sprung up from the first lash. Again, Helda shrieked and her whole body convulsed.
`Have some water ready to revive the bitch if she faints,' Savatch called out. Someone had brought a bucket in readiness and a middle aged woman stepped forward and placed it handily. Savatch nodded, grimly and his arm flashed out again. With unerring accuracy, the third stripe appeared another inch further down Helda's back and yet another tortured cry rent the air. Savatch turned to the crowd and reached inside his tunic. This time it was not the knife that he took out, but three small gold coins. He tossed them onto the ground at the foot of the whipping post.
`That's in place of the other three lashes,' he said, grimly. There was a muttering of disapproval, which quickly subsided when he turned further about, for the fire in his eyes left no room for quibbling. `She's taken enough,' he said, coiling the whip back into his hand. `She's passed out already and throwing water on her will bring her round long enough for only one more lash. Take the three crowns and put them to good use for your village.'
He turned to the two fellows who had strung Helda up. `Cut her down,' he ordered, `and see to it that one of the women washes her wounds with brine. I don't think I cut the skin deeply, but this place is filthy and I don't want her flesh putrefying on me.' He turned, looking for the blacksmith, who he found standing just a little way to one side of the main body of villagers.
`Smithy,' he said, walking towards the big man, `I want another horse and a saddle and I'll pay a fair price for both. It needn't be anything special, but I doubt yonder wench will be up to much walking for the next day or so.'
Innocent Corinna is available from most decent book outlets, published by Chimera (Price£4.99 UK), but, if you don't have such an animal in your locale, other options are to go to Chimera's own website at www.chimerabooks.co.uk. I'm not sure whether the book is still included in their main mailing lists, but if you e-mail them and ask, I'm pretty sure they still have some copies available.
Alternatively, you might try Amazon at www.amazon.co.uk and type the title, or my full name,into their search engine. You'll find quite a few of my books up there now and Amazon offer a £1.00 discount, as you probably know.
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