Bondmaiden Read Online Free PDF Page B

assembled with the others. Some of the faces were new to her, and she tried to remember names as Durwin whispered in her ear, telling her who was who. There were two men, Paxon and Karl, who were bondmen to the king and Prince Baran respectively, and a haughty woman called Alda, who was bondmaiden to Princess Magdalena. The laundress Kerta was present too, looking no less tired than before, and plump Clady, the seamstress. Tilda was brought in by Dagna and led to the big kitchen table, which had been cleared as Holmann ordered and covered with several layers of sacking.
    ‘Take your clothes off,’ Holmann ordered.
    All eyes were on the victim who, tight-lipped and with her own gaze fixed firmly on the floor, slowly undressed. When she was naked Holmann ordered her to get on the table. She lay on her back, stretched her arms above her head, and raised her knees almost to her breasts, so that her neat curls of blonde maidenhair and pink labia were on display for all to see. The onlookers stared, none more so than Holmann.
    ‘Get the pole, Jarold,’ he said finally. ‘Paxon, lend him a hand. I’ll see to the bindings.’
    Paxon, the king’s bondman, was tall and thin, and with Jarold they each took one end of a stout ash pole, which they raised and placed behind Tilda’s knees. Holmann then proceeded to fasten her legs to the pole with straps just above and below the knee.
    ‘That’s that,’ he declared when done. ‘Now then, we need someone to hold her wrists.’
    He looked around at the others, and his stare rested on Lia. For one awful moment she thought he would pick her, but then his eyes moved on.
    ‘Berta,’ he said, nodding at the cook, ‘hold Tilda’s wrists tight. You two,’ he went on, nodding at Paxon and Jarold, ‘hold fast to the pole. She’ll squirm like an eel when the rod starts to bite, mark my words.’
    Dagna handed him a stick that was twice as thick at least as the one he’d used on Lia, and he touched it to Tilda’s bottom, lightly sawing it back and forth. He became still for a moment, then swung the stick and fetched her a hard blow across the fullest part of her rump. Tilda jerked and gave a muted yelp. He struck her again, this time to the back of her thighs. More strokes followed, alternating between the two targets, hard blows that smacked Tilda’s flesh with a wicked crack, and as he’d predicted Tilda was soon squirming violently, and the three holding her down were obliged to maintain a firm grip. The rod’s relentless assault raised wheals on her bottom and thighs as her white skin turned first pink, then a blotchy red.
    ‘She’s starting to feel it now,’ the overseer said with obvious satisfaction. ‘We’ll be hearing her sing soon, I don’t doubt.’
    He was right in this too, for as the beating proceeded Tilda’s gasps and groans became wails, and wails became shrieks. The swollen wheals turned purple and ugly, evidence of the violence of the beating, and Lia trembled as she looked on in dismay, for she had never been one to relish the spectacle of a public beating. When just a girl she had cried when made to watch the miller’s daughter, Ulrike, being flogged for disobedience to her father’s will. As the ash wand did its cruel work, and Ulrike writhed and screamed between the poles, Lia had pulled free of Helma’s hand and run back to the hut, risking her own punishment in the process, for the elders had decreed the whole village must attend, even the youngest. And now, as before, she found herself wishing she were elsewhere. She already thought of Tilda as a friend, even on so short an acquaintance, and seeing her in such distress was almost more than Lia could bear.
    At last Holmann lowered his arm, red-faced and sweating from his exertions. Tilda’s frantic struggles ceased, and she slumped on the table sobbing.
    ‘Let that be a lesson to you, girl,’ the overseer growled. ‘Pilfering food is thievery, and thievery is something I won’t tolerate.