The magistrate nodded. “You are offended?”
“Deeply.”
“My condolences to you, my friend,” the Judge said with some real sadness in his gravelly voice.
Gilbere nodded and the Judge returned his eyes to the faltering woman.
“Please, husband, if I could have just a few minutes of your time, alone.”
“My time for you has expired,” he replied coldly.
“Sir, please,” she cocked her redhead cutely, as she might have early in their marriage when they still had a marriage in more than name. She offered him a sighing smile that dripped with gracious sweetness.
“Don’t demean me further with your theatrics, Antoinette. I am not moved nor amused by your cloying antics.”
“But just one word alone. Please.” Her eyes looked so pitiful.
He was deaf to her pleas. “Deal with her as you will, Antheus,” Gilbere declared to the Judge. He turned on his heel and strode from the room.
A roar of amazed gasps rose noisily from the audience.
Boom! The magistrate rapped his thick staff on the chamber floor to quiet the chattering gawkers.
“Cage her in the square pending trial. I’ll read the case before the public tomorrow, four o’clock.” He banged his staff again. “Now, clear out!”
The marketplace bustled with frenzied animation. The smell of fresh fish mingled with the aroma of wine, while dust and grime covered everything with a layer of silt, muting colors with the stains of living. Portly men and tall ones, with wives of similar or opposite build strolled through the alleys and lanes, looking into bins of fruit—oranges, grapes and pears—into barrels of fresh-baked bread, at jars of pickles and enormous wheels of cheese. For dinner, they purchased slabs of Gouda and honey bread, which they ate at the marketplace hall where an auction of goods was conducted nearly round the clock. Except for the hours between midnight and first light, the gavel pounded to seal the acquisition of traded goods from cattle, to sheep, to grain, to chickens, to human slaves. The procession was as endless as the buyers with coin for purchase.
For the amusement of this carnival, street musicians played pipes and stringed instruments. A joker or two juggled bottles and apples, while a mellow singing songstress climbed the high pitches of her favorite aria—all this while the magpies of dissent and debate argued politics and reform. Emotions swelled and emotions ebbed as the hours passed, and marketers entered and disappeared, and were replaced by another assemblage of humankind, there to make wagers, buy their stores, and catch up on the scandals and calamities springing from this tiny corner of the earth.
There was a new felon in the square. Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette Gilbere had been delivered to her cage at ten that morning, thrust into an iron-barred crate where she’d remain until the following afternoon. While her trial was still a day away, she was already on trial before the leering masses. They passed by her new home to see the noblewomen in satin green attempting to fend off the glaring gazes and the merry chatter that accompanied their interest in her. They pointed, jeered and ridiculed the lady in the fancy dress. A few young boys threw rotten fruit that got hung up on the bars. Pieces landed on her clothes, soiling her skirts; and when she tried to close her eyes and close out their taunts, they banged at the cage with sticks and spit and called her names—like whore, trollop, harpy, bitch.
The worst of the harassment occurred late in the morning and early in the afternoon when the marketplace was the busiest, packed with human flesh looking for a few thrilling moments to take home and dwell on for the week.
Later in the day, once the children were gone, a few middleclass ladies came to haughtily inspect the adulteress. Their sneering judgment was a reflection of their mirthful occupation with the demise of noble ladies. There had been three in three months to amuse their minds and add to their prattling conversation.
“She could have picked a more modest dress, don’t you think?” the first bitty spoke.
“Looks like a fancy whore to me,” her friend scoffed. “I don’t know how she’ll convince a judge of her innocence.”
“She gets this far, ladies,” another hoity snickering harridan said, “she’ll be convicted.” She nodded her head to make her point. “No magistrate can refuse to appease the masses when they want flesh—good, fine, noble flesh is always the best to punish. I think it’s detestable that they put women through these public horrors, but then, she did break the law and she does know the consequences of her crimes. Shameful. Utterly shameful.”
“Just look at her,” the first lady pointed to the prisoner.
The sad young noblewoman sat inside the cage, leaning against the bars. She had been pretty in the morning, in the magistrate’s chambers, but she wasn’t now. There was, however, a subtle beauty to her face inside its sadness. She looked perpetually resigned and infinitely subdued. The fire in her eyes was gone, reduced to a passive green.
“Looks a bit haunted to me.” The most compassionate viewed her with a different eye than the other snobbish, indignant women.
“She’ll be haunted, all right. Haunted all the way to prison, if she survives the punishment she’ll suffer.”
Nothing got through to Jolie now. They could have spat in her face, glared at her all night, thrown cow dung into the cage; she would remain unmoved and indifferent to the world. Escaped. Spent. Deep within, she prayed for night. The marketplace would clear and she’d be alone with the jailer who sat some distance off, just watching.
***
The gavel banged on the massive rostrum, quieting the clamoring crowd. They were obnoxiously loud for a gentle afternoon, but that was the way of public trials in this jurisdiction—they’d become events of huge proportion. People loved spectacle, the human drama, the anguish, and especially at this time, the titillating scandal surrounding these odd rites. With the roar reduced to a murmur of noise, the bailiff signaled the beginning of the prosecution. On cue, the magistrate appeared with his thick, black judicial robe swishing like a sad but mighty sail, hung in the air by a healthy wind.
The accused had been taken from her cage and was now standing upright in the box.
She had been demeaned, abused, scorned and spit on. She’d been defeated. Though that was the night before… not now. Now, she stood proudly—without the haughtiness common in her bearing, like what she’d witnessed from many of her censors—but with a noble mien, as if she’d tapped into a power beyond herself, and beyond these horrendous proceedings.
“The accused is being tried for adultery. And how does she plead?”
“She pleads for mercy from the court,” her defender declared.
“What witnesses are here to substantiate the accusations?” the Judge asked the prosecutor.
“Her consort is unavailable for questioning, but we have two others who will substantiate the charges.”
“And who are they?”
The prosecutor stepped aside to introduce his witnesses.
First, the Captain of the Guards testified to the defendant’s seizure—that the accused was found naked in a man’s bedchamber on the morning of her arrest. He rattled off the information without emotion, the first nail in the lady’s coffin. With no questions from the defender, he was excused.
“And who is next?” the Judge asked.
“The lady’s maid,” the prosecutor revealed.
Jolie’s eyes opened as she heard this astounding surprise… and even more so when she watched from her box, as Jacqueline LaPierre, her innocent and virtuous maid appeared before the crowd looking as though she’d chased a nightmare through a patch of briars. Her beautiful dark curls were now a rat of tangles, her face tearstained and drawn; her eyes wild with panic. She was so unlike herself, when her buoyant grin and sunshine face could perk the hearts of those in mourning. She was mourning herself, appearing as though she’d lost her most precious prize.
“Ah?” the magistrate looked up with interest as the struggling woman was led to the center of the platform.
Jacqueline tried shaking off the guard whose fingers clutched her arm. But he wouldn’t budge.
“What have you to say for yourself?” the Judge asked.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” she spat out defiantly. Having gathered her courage, she looked less frightened and a good deal more certain of herself.
“You know nothing of this woman’s infidelities?” he probed.
“I will say nothing to accuse milady.”
“Nothing?”
“That is right, sir.”
“Are you aware of the penalties for refusing to testify?”
“I don’t care about your penalties. I care about my mistress.” She stood more proudly the more she spoke.
The magistrate eyed the woman circumspectly. “You say you are the accused’s personal attendant?”
“Aye, I have been so for three years.”
“Then you’d be privy to her personal business.”
“I suppose I might.”
“Then I suggest you speak of what you know, or the court will find a way to make you talk.”
“I say nothing, sir. Not a word.” She put her foot down hard as she made her point.
The Judge’s eyes flashed angrily. “Put her to the post!”
Jacqueline flinched, but did not object as she was handily taken to the whipping post and strung up to the top so that she had to stand on tiptoe.
“On her bare back,” he magistrate nodded to the Captain of the Guards, “with the bullhide flogger.”
“Nooooooooooo!” Jolie shrieked. “I will not have her whipped!”
The Judge turned his keen eye on the accused. “You have no say.”
“Should I confess to the crime will you release her?”
“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked.
“No, milady, please. I can take the pain,” Jacqueline cried.
“No, you will not!” Jolie answered. “Release her and I will tell you anything you want to know.”
The crowd stirred excitedly as the argument continued; but now was hushed to a stray cough, or a whispering parent silencing their child. In the middle of the throng, a tiny baby squalled; but he, too, was quickly quieted, forced to his mother’s teat where he happily consumed his dinner. All were focused on the tense moment between the Judge, the accused and the unhappy witness.
“You’re prepared to testify against yourself?”
“Only if this woman is freed. She is innocent in these matters and I wish no harm to come to her.”
“Please, milady no!” Jacqueline shouted. “They will murder you!”
“No, Jacqueline, they cannot kill me.”
“But…”
“Silence, wench!” the magistrate declared. “Captain, set the witness free.”
“I think we should detain her should the accused have lied to us.”
“The accused has already condemned herself. Let the woman go.”
Jacqueline breathed defiantly, as she was released from the whipping post. Her entire being burned with indignation, but she would not say a word—not when her mistress had so determinedly put her body in place of hers. She cast a scornful glance at the magistrate and his court, offered the same to the crowd, and then a compassionate glance toward her lady. She wanted to speak again.
Jolie shook her head, ‘no’ and then smiled. “I’ll be all right,” she mouthed silently.
No, she wouldn’t, the sad maid understood, but there was no dissuading her mistress when her mind was set.
“Tell your tale, ma’am,” the Judge ordered.
“I have no tale to tell, sir. I am guilty as I have been charged, of carrying on a sexual liaison with a man who is not my husband. I pleaded for mercy when this trial began, I plead now.”
“You have justification for your behavior?”
“Nothing but a loveless marriage.”
“That is no excuse for fornication,” the magistrate decided.
“Then I am guilty, sir.”
The gavel landed with a thud to quiet a crowd clamoring for revenge. The commotion died and the magistrate spoke again.
“The accused has been found guilty of adultery. She is to be stripped, caged for humiliation and then publicly flogged. Following this sentence, her husband will determine her fate, and his wishes will be carried out. Captain, you may proceed now.”
Jacqueline had disappeared, her husband had fled the scene long ago—having been little more than a tentative passerby—and Prince Tasio by design had never showed. Jolie was utterly alone hearing the sentence passed, but was strangely at peace.
Her future was unknown to her. Certainly, her husband would not keep her after this public rebuke. His ego was as powerful as hers, and easier to break. The marriage was permanently tainted by her prurient lust—and her inability to keep the affair a secret. If only she’d been less impertinent and more cautious. If only she’d listened to her lover’s counsel. If only she’d let his wisdom speak, and led her life as a reasonable woman—with her mind, not her heart and her mutinous attitude. Ah, but that does not happen with a wild one the likes of this fair-skinned redhead.
Pulled from the box, Jolie stood before the crowd to be humiliated, to be stripped of her garments and paraded naked through the marketplace as she was returned to her cage. This was a daunting moment. Fear seeped through every pore. Her nerves were mangled. But oddly, her body was jumping with excitement as the Captain of the Guards stood behind her and cut the neck of her dress in three places with his knife. Then, reaching around, with a hand on either side of the low-cut bodice, he ripped the emerald satin from her, exposing her breasts to the gaping eyes of the impatient crowd. They leered, jeered and laughed, as the once proud noblewoman was displayed before them.
Jolie quaked to her core, while she bit her lip trying to avoid the great embarrassment this exposure caused.
However, the unveiling was not finished. The Captain of the Guards reached in and cut her skirt with his knife, ripping the beautiful garment into shreds. Tossing the pieces at the crowd, horny young bucks surged toward the platform to claim a fragment of the lady’s attire and a better look at her creamy white thighs and the pink triangle of curls at her crotch. Every bit of cloth from her outer garments to her underclothes disappeared, pocketed by a throng that relished each indignity perpetrated on this disgraced woman.
Marie Jolie Gabrielle Antoinette was not without feeling—though she did her best to disguise the horrible sensations the unmasking produced. Her insides ground as though sharp-toothed dragons were having a vicious war. One dragon wished to die, while the other laughed in its face. Despite this miserable consequence the strangest feeling of thrill brewed within. If it would have served her purposes, she might have shook her fist in their faces. Instead, she remained calm to the insistent crowd who wanted more of her to revile. But there was no more. Her face, her breasts, her pussy and her ass, all her privates were available for their inspection. She had no more they could take from her.
“String her up now!” the crowd shouted. “String her up!”
She was to be taken to her cage—lodged there for several hours to be jeered at and further humiliated. But the crowd would not allow that. They wanted more.
“String her up!” they cried in passionate unison.
String her up, yes. But that was not all they wanted. The throng rushed forward wanting to take her from the platform and stone her. The kill was in their blood; their history filled with adulteresses punished by a painful death for illicit fornication.
The gavel sounded. Then the Judge’s staff followed, pounding against the floorboards of the stage. The crowd fell back, but just a step, while they lowered the volume of their insurgent message a few degrees in volume.
“String her up!” the Judge’s voice rang out loudly. He was just one step away from giving her to the crowd—a sacrificial lamb for their lust to feed on. But this was a civilized country, which had pulled itself from the dark ages of its history. They should be coun
ted on to see these trials through with some decorum, some decency. No, he would not make a mockery of progress letting his own urges get the better of him and the mob have her. “String her up!” he repeated, to get the roused Captain of the Guards moving quickly. He would quell the frenzy with the first stroke of the lash.
Jolie was manacled at the wrists, her wrists then attached to a free-hanging hook high above her head. Unlike the way Jacqueline had been bound to a whipping post, there was no post to comfort this criminal. Almost as if she hung suspended, her body was accessible on all sides to the assault of the punishment.
Two executors appeared on the platform, each armed with the implements of her torture. They appraised her, both carefully strolling around her body, both viewing with delight her pendulant breasts and their tiny nipples, seeing the glorious taper of her waist and how her luscious buttocks bloomed like two full petals of a summer rose. There would be lots of flesh to punish here. Jolie’s thighs were resplendent, quivering, and beauteous. How would they look marred from the cuts of a lash? Her appeal as a woman was clearly apparent now. To cause her death would defeat the purpose of such womanliness. Her charms could be enjoyed now in a way few would ever see in such a gratifying manner.
One executor held a two inch wide strap, the second held a flogger with six dozen falls of braided leather. They began in tandem, one on either side of her, lashing at her body with subtle easy blows at first and working their way up to hard-hitting strikes against the soft surface of her skin. From breasts, to belly, to thighs in front; from shoulders to buttocks to thighs in the rear. They began with a moderate rhythm, then increased their intensity as they moved around her, the strap now in front and the flogger behind.
The pain bit, but not viciously to start. This simple pace was almost too good to be true. Though it didn’t last. What sensuousness erupted from her desirous body made her arousal soar in delightful anticipation as her mind disengaged. But then the punishment stung, and stung more, as her tormentors paced around her delivering blows she could not absorb and love. If they paused, she might retrieve some of the pleasure; but then it was gone, as the executors revived themselves and worked her body harder still.
The Saga of a Naughty Lady Page 2