by Evans, Trent
The Lady turned to the soldiers holding Owen, dipping her sword toward the ground. The men kicked the legs out from under him, dropping him to his knees, their hold on his shoulders preventing the struggling boy from rising. As placid as a still lake, the Lady stepped toward him. She pulled her leather riding gloves from her pocket. Then there were two whirs of brown color as the Lady slapped Owen across the cheeks with the gloves, one side, then the other.
He stared up at her, naked rage in his eyes. Sophie had no doubt that had Owen been given the chance, he would have attacked the Lady, even though such an act would have meant the forfeiture of his life.
“Now then, boy,” the Lady said. “You’ll know not to question your betters next time, yes?”
With a defiant thrust of his chin, Owen turned his face away.
“Your Grace,” Sophie’s father said, stepping to the Lady’s side. “He’s a daft lad. Let him be, I beg you.”
“As I said, Clayton,” the Lady replied, returning her gloves to her pocket. “Charming though his chivalry toward your daughter may be, he needs a lesson in better manners. Perhaps my men might show him the error of his ways?”
One of the men holding Owen chuckled, ruffling his unruly hair.
“No, please your Grace. Not that,” Sophie’s father said, shaking his head. “I will have Rory see to him. He won’t sit comfortably for a week, I assure you. Let us leave it at that.”
Sophie wasn’t sure what was worse: the thought of Owen being lashed for protecting her, or the sick feeling in her stomach at the defeated tone of her father’s voice. She’d never in her life heard him like that, the fear just under the surface.
The Lady’s practiced façade fell over her like a curtain, the pleasant smile back on her face, as if nothing untoward had happened. “Perhaps if I have a look at her now, we can remand this foolish boy to your able steward after all?”
Sophie didn’t miss the groans of disappointment from the Lady’s two bodyguards. Her father glanced at Sophie, the haunted look in his eyes almost more than she could take.
She couldn’t mean…
“Your Grace, surely there must be something else I can offer. She’s my youngest daughter.”
“Now, Clayton.” The Lady patted his arm as if a child’s. “I’m only borrowing her. She’ll not be truly harmed.”
“I cannot bear it.” He dropped to one knee, his head lowered. “Anything but that, Grace.”
The Lady looked down upon him, her fingers twirling in the hair at the back of his head. “What would you offer in recompense, Clayton? Perhaps a reunion of —”
“The boy then.”
Sophie gasped. “Father, no!” She rushed to Owen, kneeling by his side.
The Lady gazed upon Owen for a moment, considering. “I think not, Clayton. Tempting though your offer may be. he still does need that lesson.” The Lady nodded at her men and they dragged the struggling, cursing Owen out of the barn.
“No, what are you doing!” Sophie cried out. “You said you wouldn’t take him!”
Sophie’s father rose, pulling himself to his full imposing height, dwarfing the Lady.
“Your Grace, there are others … ”
“No.” The Lady’s cold eyes glittered. “This is my right. I’m being generous in even asking you, and you know it.”
Sophie saw her father’s shoulders slump, and she had to fight back the tears. What was happening here?
“Then I have … no choice.”
“None, Clayton.”
He gave a quick nod, then strode to his kneeling daughter. He helped her up, and hugged her close. He smelled good to her, had always done so. Safety and love.
“Sophie,” he whispered into the hair above her ear. “Much will be asked of you. Whatever your Lady commands, you will obey. You must do this.”
“Father,” she whispered. “I’m afraid. What must I do?”
“Listen to me. This is the only way, and you will endure it. I will see you again, sweet daughter.” He caressed her cheek a moment, the sadness in his blue eyes like a bottomless well.
Then he stepped away, leaving the barn before Sophie could say more. The two hulking bodyguards appeared again, flanking the Lady. Sophie longed to slap the leering looks from their faces.
“Now then, my dear.” The Lady’s finger poked Sophie between the breasts. “Let’s have off with these rags.”
Chapter Two
The carriage bounced violently, nearly throwing Sandra from her seat. She rapped on the dark wood ceiling with her fist. “For Goddess’ sake Raffer, watch the road! You’re shaking me to death back here!”
“Apologies, Countess,” her driver said, the sound muffled through the wood.
In truth — though the rough ride was indeed unpleasant — she was angry that the jostling of the atrocious “road” had interrupted her pleasant reverie. Her husband had been an absolute animal that morning, so unlike his usual inattentiveness. She’d taken to indulging him in his little games, allowing him to spank her buttocks, and tie her hands and feet to the bed before thrusting himself to ecstasy within her clutching sex. He’d even lapped at her cunt until she’d screamed down the walls. Such was a most rare occurrence with her husband, he being more often predisposed to what would most readily satisfy his rampant cock.
Though his unexpected amorous attentions had caused her to miss her planned rendezvous with the captain of their estate guard, she’d consoled herself with the not one but two orgasms she’d unexpectedly been allowed at her husband’s bidding. Still, her husband’s unexpected use of her had delayed her.
Her dashing, blond captain with his thick cock and hard hands would just have to cool his heels until next time.
The carriage turned off the dirt road, the hooves of the horses clapping on cobblestones. They’d arrived at Westwood Manor.
The carriage followed the roadway through a tall, looming portcullis, which opened onto the green grass of an inner courtyard. The bleached stone walls soared overhead, engendering a feeling of both grandeur and security. Heavily armed men patrolled the crenellated battlements above, the bright red uniforms of the garrison soldiers a striking contrast to the austere gray of the stone fortifications.
The Countess gathered her rich burgundy cloak about her lithe form, allowing the driver to help her down from the coach. The sun was bright, but the air was crisp. Fall was coming fast to the Westlands of Muurland.
Raffer steered the coach over to the stable block, trailing a cloud of dust in his wake, leaving the Countess alone in the courtyard.
Countess Sandra Holstenborg was a regular visitor to Westwood Manor, the familiar nods and curtsies from passing footmen, grooms and maids alike attesting to that fact. She was happy to be there, as always, and was looking forward to some much needed leisure time with her friend Lady Miriam Westwood.
A crowd’s loud cheer arose, echoing off the battlement walls. The Countess turned toward the sound.
“They’re getting an early start this morning, Sandra. Looks like you’re just in time.”
“Miriam!” The Countess spun about, rushing to her friend and embracing her, planting a warm kiss on her soft lips.
The Lady was wrapped in a dark gray ankle length coat, the collar lined with a soft ash colored fur. Her sable locks were wrapped atop her head, a pair of neat carved hair sticks holding it in place. Her radiant grin warmed Sandra’s heart, if not her body, chilled as it was from the long carriage ride. Sandra pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
“Let’s see if we can find something to warm us up shall we?” Miriam winked, extending her arm to her friend.
The huge courtyard at Westwood Manor had more practical uses, such as the spectacle that greeted the two noblewomen. Tucked into a corner of the yard, next to one of the stable buildings stood a simple wooden gibbet, and two sets of worn stocks. A crowd of commoners had gathered round the gibbet, cheering and shouting out ribald comments on the spectacle. A young woman, her dress rucked up to the small of he
r back embraced the stout wooden pole of the gibbet, her arms lashed around the weathered oak by means of several iron chains. Her sweat-soaked blonde locks hung limply down her back as she sobbed her present misery away.
A brawny man of perhaps thirty stood to one side. In one hand, he held a multi-thonged lash of soft leather, while with the other his fingers traced the patchwork of pink and crimson weals patterned over the forlorn girl’s bare buttocks. She stamped a foot, the generous flesh of her bottom shaking as he pinched a particularly inflamed lash mark between hard fingers.
“Think you’ve had enough, Emma?” He turned to the crowd, his eyes flashing. “What say you?”
The crowd cheered once more. An older man standing near the two nobles, dipped his head toward the handsome woman standing with him. “A fine flogging there, eh Clara? Reminds me of the last time I had you at the pole those many years ago.” He grasped the woman’s hand, and she blushed furiously.
The man with the flogger turned and laced another stroke across the proffered buttocks, eliciting a cry of anguish from the bound woman. She clenched her blazing bottom, her feet pounding the dirt.
“What’s happening,” Sandra whispered to Miriam. “Why is she being whipped in public?”
Miriam shrugged. “It’s one of the traditions I’ve decided to revive. Back when my grandfather ruled these lands, before the magistrate system, the commoners would come to this square to air grievances and work out compromises for their problems. A sort of town meeting, you could say”
Sandra raised an eyebrow, her heart beating faster at the enticing spectacle. “Some compromise.”
Miriam smiled. “They do have creative ways of resolving their, ah, disagreements. The crowds love it though, and they’re grateful for the entertainment.”
“What’s that poor thing done to deserve such a skipping?” In truth, Sandra couldn’t really object, for the sight had her heart pounding and her clit singing. The bound young woman was blessed with a well-fleshed backside, and the sight of the inflamed weals across the smooth firm flesh was a pleasing visual tableau indeed.
“Seems she made a scene in the market earlier this week,” Miriam said, laying a hand on Sandra’s shoulder. “Her husband — that’s him whipping her — wanted her to make amends with one of the vendors at the market. Apparently, he hoped the public setting would prevent his headstrong wife from causing an uproar. He was wrong.”
“What was it all about? Must have been serious to occasion such a penalty.”
Miriam chuckled. “I suppose it depends upon your perspective. It seems the vendor at the marketplace was a former competitor for the husband’s affections, and he wanted to be able to do business with her. Well, his wife would have nothing of it.”
“I can certainly understand that. Cruel man to ask that of her.”
Miriam grinned at her friend. “Indeed. I think it’s diabolical — and delicious.”
Sandra blinked at her friend. “You do?”
“Oh yes, Sandra. It’s obvious he just wanted an excuse to display her charms in public and thrash her bottom for her. I mean look at the girl. She’s delightful.”
“Yes,” Sandra breathed. “She is at that.”
Sandra wondered if the young woman might be paid a visit by a few of Miriam’s soldiers in the near future. The Lady’s tastes were well known to her subjects. Judging by Miriam’s avid, dark-eyed gaze as she watched the flogging, the punished wife might soon find herself the newest addition to the Lady Westwood’s retinue of “serving girls”.
The man, running his hand over the bright red stinging buttocks of his wife turned to the crowd once more. “Would anyone else like to address my wife’s misdeeds? Anyone?”
The bound woman snapped her head around, looking at her husband over her shoulder. “Kenneth, please no!” Her face was a mess. Tears drenched her flushed cheeks, her fair hair matted to her wet forehead. She cried out as he cracked a heavy palm across her backside, the flesh quivering with the blow.
“Quiet, Em! You know better than to speak. Face forward now.”
His wife turned her face away, resting her forehead against the post. Her back hitched as she wept.
“My arm grows tired,” the husband called out, raising the flogger. “Surely, there is another who can deliver the last fair dose of discipline she so obviously needs?”
Miriam clutched the Countess’s hand in hers. “Watch this.”
“I will try.” A mature woman of perhaps forty, her dark hair flowing over a form-fitting dress of teal cotton stepped forward from the murmuring crowd. “I think I can give her what she needs.”
The crowd roared its approval, several hands clapping the woman on the back in encouragement. The heat between Sandra’s thighs increased as she noted the firm set of the man’s strong jaw, and the glittering gaze under prominent brows. She could see steel in the depths of his eyes as he smiled at the woman who’d stepped forward. There was a heated familiarity there.
“That’s her,” Miriam whispered.
“Who?”
“That woman is her former competitor. The woman from the market.”
Sandra gasped, even as her pussy leaked a bead of moisture down her thighs. Diabolical indeed. “That poor woman must have a hard go of it married to such a brute.”
“Oh, let’s not protest overmuch,” Miriam said, elbowing her friend. “He’s a fine specimen too, Sandra. She’s lucky to be in such capable hands.”
She wouldn’t argue it, for she was drawn inescapably to hard, even cruel men. Men such as her own husband — bastard though he sometimes could be — were irresistible to her. Sandra herself possessed the same streak of cruelty, though it was not quite as pronounced as the outright sadism her friend Miriam was known for. She’d long ago stopped asking herself why she was the way she was, and just accepted it as the way of her nature.
The woman gripped the flogger as the husband stepped forward to stand next to the post, his hand bracing the heaving shoulder of his weeping wife. The crowd hushed once more in anticipation. The woman glanced up at the husband, who nodded his head.
The flogger slashed in with a smack, leaving a further set of tracks on the vulnerable buttocks, and the wife groaned, twisting her hips away.
“Hush now, Em,” the husband said in a low voice, his head close to his wife’s ear. “Just a few more strokes and it’ll be all over. Be strong now, my love.”
His wife’s shift had slipped down somewhat, partially concealing the martyred buttocks. The aggrieved woman, the tails of the whip swinging back and forth in her hand, waited as the husband stroked a hand down his wife’s flank, his fingers gathering up the folds of her shift to secure it high up on her hips once more.
“Come, Sandra, I’ve something else to show you.” Miriam laced her arm in her friend’s, leading her away from the fascinating scene.
The sound of the next strike of the flogger greeted their ears as the two nobles strolled through the massive black doors of the inner keep.
Chapter Three
McClearn Farmstead
Clayton McClearn and his friend Isaac Galt rode along the dusty ridge demarcating the northern boundary of the McClearn farmstead. The morning sun beat down on the fields mercilessly. It was shaping up to be an unseasonably hot day for so late in the year.
Two oxen, dragging a massive iron-tined plow toiled in the field below, turning over the cropland. A young man in grubby coveralls and a broad-rimmed hat cracked a long whip above the animals’ backs, urging them to struggle onward. The crop yield had been plentiful that year, and the subsequent auctions at Wyndhaven and Steerton had been quite successful. Such good news however, did little to raise Clayton’s spirits.
“What news from the Frontier?” Clayton wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. “I’ve heard nothing in weeks. It’s unusual for it to be this quiet.”
“Lord Westwood has been on the Frontier for at least the last two months.”
Clayton cursed under his breath. “N
ow it makes sense.”
Isaac grimaced, his graying dark hair blowing in a sudden gust of wind. “Most of what I hear is just talk. It’s been so long since the last Incursion. What if we’re overdue for one?”
“We are, Isaac.”
Isaac nodded, stroking a hand along his close cropped gray beard. “There is talk of a levy. The last time there was a levy … ”
Clayton remembered all right. The countryside had emptied of able-bodied males between age 14 and 45, all flooding toward the Frontier. It had been the oddest sensation to ride along the Border road, and meet so many of the men he’d grown up with. Few of them had survived through the next year.
“You know something don’t you, Isaac?”
“As I said, just talk, my friend.” Isaac’s horse snorted as he had the animal pick its way through a patch of exposed rock along the ridge.
“Complacence and decadence are even worse enemies than the nocturne; they’ve always known when we’re rife with it.”
Clayton had foolishly allowed some hope to steal into his heart. Crops were plentiful, the population was booming —and that wasn’t even counting the steady trickle of Others that were being encountered with increasing regularity. There hadn’t been an Incursion in more than twenty years; most of the soldiers on the line at the Frontier had no memory of the enemy.
Clayton and Isaac did though; they had enough memory for ten lifetimes.
“You’ve got fine strong oxen down there, Clayton,” Isaac said, nodding toward the toiling draft animals in the field below. He sat high in his saddle, his straight back and keen gaze belying his 49 years.
“That they are, my friend. Rory picked them up from the Tilders’ stead for a song. The old woman had no use for them once her husband passed, and her sons decided to sell the land.”
He remembered long ago on a visit to Westwood Manor what he’d seen pulling plows in their fields. It hadn’t been oxen. The thought made him shiver, knowing that his daughter was held captive at that very same manor.
