‘What’s this?’ a voice screeched incredulously. ‘Lewdness of the worst kind the second my back is turned! God’s curse on you, harlot, for leading this innocent young man astray! And as for you, brother Bruno, I thought you had moral fibre enough to reject her lecherous advances.’
Bruno backed away and hastily covered himself, his head bowed in shame. Lia remained where she was, not bothering to try to explain that she hadn’t instigated anything, for she knew he wouldn’t believe her. Lothar proceeded to berate the pair of them, after which he announced their punishment: extra prayers for Bruno and a beating for Lia. He wasted no time with the latter, finding a birch tree and cutting numerous slender twigs, which he bound into three separate bundles. Lia was then made to carry them to the stream and soak them for a while, with Lothar keeping a watchful eye on her, and then they returned to their little camp.
Following the bishop’s instruction Bruno tied together several lengths of rope, which he threw over the branch of a tree. The end of the rope was tied around Lia’s wrists and she was hauled up onto tiptoe. Her cloak was removed, the bishop picked up a birch bundle and began to beat her, and very quickly she was twisting and turning in a futile attempt to escape the sharp pain, shrieking all the while. He struck her indiscriminately as she writhed on the end of the rope, at any suitable target that presented itself: her breasts, her back, her buttocks, her thighs, her belly…
After a time he discarded the tattered birch bundle and selected a fresh one, her body burning as though it were a fiery brand he was using instead of damp twigs.
‘Spread your legs,’ he commanded, ‘as wide as you can.’ With a whimper she did so, as he picked up the final birch bundle and resumed the beating, cruelly concentrating on her vulnerable inner thighs, and even her sex.
At last he stopped and lowered his arm, red in the face and breathing heavily. ‘Let that be a lesson to you, whore,’ he gasped. ‘Cut her down, Bruno, and fetch me the breast clamp. She’ll wear it tonight, tight enough for sleep to be denied her. I don’t doubt she’ll come to rue her misdeeds in the long hours between dusk and dawn.’
He was as good as his word, tightening the clamp harder than ever before; and he was quite right in his predictions; the pain did keep her awake and the night seemed interminable.
Lia was exhausted the next day, and her breasts still ached from the clamping. She trudged along behind Lothar with her eyes cast down, and it was only when she heard a stranger’s voice hailing them that she looked up and saw they had reached another village. A bent old man was standing in the street leaning on a stick and watching their approach with anxious eyes, though Lia couldn’t imagine why the sight of three dusty, road-weary travellers should cause disquiet.
‘What news from the north, good folk?’ the old man called out. ‘Will the armies of Osburg attack, do you think?’
It was only then that Lia realised they must have crossed the border, and were now in Attland. Her heart lifted a little at the knowledge she was back in her homeland, though her situation was hardly improved. She remained Lothar’s prisoner and slave, for the Church was all-powerful, recognising no overlord but God himself. No one here, not even Prince Baran himself, would challenge a bishop over the ownership of a mere serf.
‘As to that,’ Lothar told the man, ‘I cannot say, though I’ve heard folk there speak of war, certainly. You had best confess your sins while you have the chance, my son, in case the worst should befall. Is there a priest in the village?’
‘No, master; we are but thirty souls all told, including the children.’
‘Thirty, you say? I see but one. Where are the rest?’
‘They run and hide whenever strangers approach, sir. I would run too if my legs were twenty years younger, for the Osburg soldiers killed six of our men when they passed through here last, and took all our young women away with them.’
‘No one need hide from us,’ Lothar said dismissively. ‘Do you have any riding beasts here? I am in need of a horse or mule, and am willing to pay in silver coin. Even a donkey would do, if there’s naught else.’
The old man said that he had a horse and showed them to the stable. It was a sorry looking creature, which was perhaps why the soldiers hadn’t stolen it before, but the bishop bought it anyway when assured there was no other to be had for miles around. He told Bruno to lash his pack behind the saddle, but when Lia started to remove hers also he ordered her brusquely to keep it on.
‘The beast is old,’ he snapped, ‘and cannot carry everything. Besides, hard toil will help purge lustful thoughts from your mind.’
The sheer injustice of it, coming as it did after days of harsh treatment and undeserved punishments, pushed her over the edge into open rebellion. If it was indeed true that the horse could carry one pack only then it should be hers, for Bruno was ten times stronger than she was. But she knew it wasn’t true, any more than his desire to ‘purge her of lustful thoughts’. What he really wanted was to break her spirit. He wouldn’t be content until she wept and grovelled at his feet; a thing she was too stubborn to do. It was that same obstinacy that caused her to speak up now, when she knew the sensible thing was to hold her tongue. ‘That’s not fair!’ she cried. ‘Why should I be the one to carry it?’
The bishop’s face turned white with anger and he raised a fist. She was sure he would strike her, but he merely shook it in her face. ‘Insolence!’ he screeched. ‘What unmitigated gall, to question my orders! And such ingratitude, after everything I’ve done for you! It is clear to me now that I’ve been far too lenient, allowing you to travel in comfort as I have, a mistake I intend to rectify. Bruno, get the nipple clamps from her pack.’
Lia bit her lip, but it was too late to take it back now, so she forced herself to stand still as the cruel jaws of the clamps bit on her poor nipples, knowing that if she resisted he would only make her suffer the more. When it was done he mounted the horse and they set off once more, pressing on faster with Bruno striding out and the old horse trotting along beside him, so that Lia was forced to trot to keep up. The ropes of the pack cut into her shoulders and the clamps bounced on her breasts, tugging her nipples agonisingly.
But still she forced herself on, for Lothar was perfectly capable of tying her to the horse and dragging her along if he thought she was slowing them down. Hours passed in this manner, and it was late in the afternoon when she saw, through a veil of pain and exhaustion, a group of huts and a church that were strangely familiar. Then she saw the platform with its two posts and the barrel of ash wands, and realised where they were. It was Three Elms village. She was home.
‘We’ll stop here for the night,’ Lothar said as he reined in the horse outside the inn and dismounted. ‘See if you can find the landlord.’
The inn door was shut, so Bruno pounded on it. Lia looked towards her father’s hut, hoping to see him or Helma, but there was not a soul in sight. She guessed everyone was hiding, as they had at the last village. But then as Bruno continued to thump on the inn door, to no avail, she saw Father Adalard come out of the church and walk towards them.
‘Save your strength, brother,’ he called out, ‘there’s no one inside. Welcome, my lord bishop. Please, will you come to my poor abode and take refreshment?’
They followed him to his house, where he provided them with bread and soup, and plain water to drink. He apologised for the meagreness of the fare, explaining that they hadn’t recovered from the recent raids. The Osburg soldiers had eaten most of the food, he said, drunk the wine, stolen the livestock, and killed anyone who protested.
‘They didn’t get our women, fortunately,’ he said. ‘When we heard from those fleeing the town that the soldiers were coming I sent every female and child off to hide in the forest.’
His words lifted a great weight from Lia’s shoulders, for she’d been worrying about Helma’s fate ever since the invasion. Father Adalard kept glancing at her as he spoke and th
ere was pity in his eyes, and puzzlement, and then finally she saw recognition.
‘Lia?’ he murmured, almost in disbelief. ‘Can it really be you?’
‘Hello, father,’ she said.
‘You know this person?’ Lothar asked him suspiciously.
‘Indeed I do,’ Adalard said, ‘for she was one of my flock until recently. How are you, my dear? I’ve prayed daily to our Lord to keep you from harm, and now here you are, returned to us once more, safe, if not exactly sound. You look weary beyond—’
‘You should take no pride in the fact that she was one of yours,’ the bishop snapped, interrupting him. ‘I’ve never met a female with so much wickedness in her as this one.’
‘Lia?’ Father Adalard said in astonishment. ‘Wicked?’
‘Indeed,’ Lothar said. ‘She has the soul of Eve, and desires only to lead men astray. I’m taming her though, slowly, with clamp and hard toil and birch. Show the father how you suffer for your sins, girl.’
Reluctantly Lia opened her cloak, and Father Adalard’s face turned pale as he observed the nipple clamps hanging from her breasts. He stared in horror, then looked at Lothar as though seeing him in a new light.
‘Aye,’ he said in a quiet, grim voice, ‘all is clear, for you have opened my eyes to her wickedness. Her mother’s blood runs in her veins, and no man is safe from her malice, I see that now.’
‘Eh?’ Lothar said. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘Her mother, my lord bishop. She poisoned her first husband. I’d thought this one free of the contagion, but I realise now that I was wrong. It’s fortunate that you didn’t allow her to prepare your food, or even let her near it. Most fortunate indeed. Death from certain toadstools can be agonising, I understand, and far from swift. The victim lingers in unspeakable pain for many days.’
Now it was Lia’s turn to stare, for she had never heard anyone speak ill of her mother, who died when Lia was just a baby. Indeed, her father had told Helma and Lia often that their mother was a kind, gentle woman who never harmed a soul. But now she knew the terrible truth, for Father Adalard would never lie, not even to save his own life. Her mother had been a murderess!
‘My food?’ Lothar spluttered. ‘But… she often prepares my food.’
Adalard winced and sucked in a breath. ‘For myself I wouldn’t dare to risk it,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but then you’re far more courageous than I, as anyone can see. Are you a light sleeper too, may I ask? If not, I think you should have a care at night, for Lia’s mother blinded her second husband. She jabbed sharpened sticks in his eyes while he slept.’
He made a violent downward motion with his two clenched fists, and bishop Lothar shot straight up out of his chair, his face white as a sheet. ‘Take her!’ he shrieked. ‘I want naught more to do with her! You take her, and the devil take her soul!’
‘I’ll take her if you command it, of course,’ Adalard said in consternation, ‘but—’
‘No buts!’ Lothar cried. ‘She’s yours to deal with as you see fit. I’ll not stay a single night under the same roof as the witch. Bruno, fetch the horse, we’re leaving.’ Bruno hurried out of the room with the bishop close on his heels.
‘Father Adalard,’ Lia moaned, ‘these clamps on my nipples… I can’t take them off.’
‘How so, my child?’ the priest asked in dismay.
‘It requires a key. The bishop keeps it on a chain around his neck.’
Father Adalard crossed himself and ran out after them, but soon returned, and to Lia’s relief he was holding the key.
‘Quickly father,’ she gasped, opening the cloak once more.
‘Nay,’ Adalard said, looking away. ‘I cannot touch you there, my child. I cannot even look without imperilling my soul. You will have to do it.’
With his eyes averted he held out the key, which Lia took with fumbling fingers and fitted onto the screws in turn, finally able to release herself. With a sigh of relief she dropped the clamps on the floor and covered herself once more. ‘You can turn around now, father,’ she said.
He did so, his face troubled. ‘Lia, I have some dreadful news,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your father is dead.’
‘Dead?’ she murmured, barely able to take it in.
‘Yes. The soldiers from Osburg killed him. You remember I said I sent all the women and children to hide in the forest? Well, three or four of the men took it in turns to take food to them, your father included. One day the soldiers caught him with a sack of bread and guessed his errand. They tried to make him tell where the women were hiding, but he refused to speak, even when they beat him savagely. They beat him to death, and he defied them to the very end. It was a courageous thing your father did, and you should be proud of him.’
Lia supposed she should, and despite feeling mostly empty, she thought it was good that her father had done something brave and noble, and would be remembered forever as a hero and a martyr. Few serfs could hope for such distinction.
‘And Helma, father?’ she asked. ‘What of her?’
‘Your sister is well, thank the Lord,’ Adalard said with a smile, ‘though naturally sad at your father’s death, and sad too for losing you. Go to her now, Lia, for nothing will heal her heart faster than the sight of your sweet face.’
‘Thank you, father. Will you come too?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I must go straight to the church to pray. Your mother was no criminal, Lia, but a good devout Christian and a kindly soul. I lied to the bishop, and would do so again and more to wrest you from his grasp; but now I must atone for my sin. Come see me later when you are rested and we will talk, for I am eager to hear of your adventures.’
As Lia ran through the village, her weariness forgotten, she thought she would have to edit her tale considerably if poor Father Adalard wasn’t to faint from shock. But now here was her hut, and her door. She went in and saw Helma by the fire, beautiful as ever, though her eyes were sad. Helma gasped, first startled, then astonished, then overjoyed to see her. They hugged each other, weeping, and Lia knew she was home.
A few days later, in the evening, as they were resting after a long day in the fields, the door opened. Lia turned, expecting to see Father Adalard or perhaps a neighbour, but at the sight of their visitors her heart sank. It was the three soldiers who used to visit Helma each week for sex; and Lia remembered then that it was Friday. Both girls jumped to their feet, and Helma moved in front of Lia to shield her.
‘Aye,’ one of the men, a sergeant, said with a grin, ‘we’re back. Did you miss us?’
‘My cock certainly missed you,’ another said, at which the third man sniggered.
‘Who’s that hiding behind you?’ the sergeant asked. ‘Not little Lia, surely?’
She stepped out and faced him, and he moved closer and looked her up and down. ‘Not so little any more, by the saints. Let’s have a proper look at you, sweetheart.’
As he tugged at her smock Helma tried to push between them. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘don’t hurt her. Take me—’
‘Oh we will, never fear. Her too, I’m thinking.’
Helma wrapped her arms around Lia, her little sister, who would always be a child in her eyes, but Lia extricated herself gently. ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m a woman now. There’s nothing to fear.’
She took off her smock, forcing a smile for her sister’s sake. Helma nodded sadly, her eyes moist, and undressed as well. The men watched them hungrily, their eyes full of lust.
‘Kneel down,’ the sergeant said when they were naked, which they did, and were promptly offered a cock to suck. Lia received the sergeant’s, and he groaned with pleasure and reached down to maul her breasts as she sucked and licked. ‘That feels fucking good,’ he muttered thickly.
‘You reckon you’re her first?’ the waiting soldier asked.
�
��No chance of that,’ the sergeant said. ‘She’s done this a good few times, isn’t that right, Lia? Been fucked a good few times too, I’m guessing.’
‘She’ll be fucked a lot more before the night’s out, arse and cunt both,’ the other soldier grunted coarsely, pushing his cock deep into Helma’s throat.
This was the way it would be, Lia knew, each Friday night from now on. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, all the time she was a prisoner longing for her home, but she’d suffered worse and survived. At least she was there to take some of the burden from Helma, who previously had to suffer all three of them on her own. Certainly there was no point resisting the men’s advances, for that would only earn them a beating, after which the men would still have their way with them. They were serfs, after all; and for serfs, as Lia had learned through pain and suffering, nothing ever truly changed.
‘Swallow it, sweetheart,’ the sergeant said, ‘when it comes.’
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