Read Online This Other Eden by Marilyn Harris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marilyn Harris
Ads: Link
she
give in. "Don't fight it, Marianne. Let the oak take it." Then the
tortured male voice moved back from its mindless advice and the whip lifted
again, again came furiously down. The thickness of her tongue prohibited either
speech or outcry. Her mind reeled under the damage being done to her back, the
very bones of her spine felt exposed. A leaf of darkness had fallen across her
eyes. Her fear of the whistling sound was as great as the lash itself. A high
price for dignity, purchased with blood.
Her
distracted mind lost count, drowned in grief that she had so hopelessly
underestimated the oceanic distance between one and ten. At five, she might
have endured, perhaps six. But beyond that there was only unendurance, an awful
estrangement in her bowels, ribs pressing against flesh.
Tears
ran openly down her face. One more. Number nine? The bright light of morning
faded. The grinning child stepped closer, curious.
She
was not aware of number ten. As the whip whistled upward, she felt her heart
murdered, her body swung limp in its swing, and her mind swept into a still
quiet place where it sat and prayed,
"Once
I was. Now I can rest."
Safe
in his upper bedchamber, in the confinement of a hot white nightshirt, Thomas
Eden stood at the window and endured number five. Then he turned quickly away
in search of brandy. Damn her! Damn the girl!
With
trembling hands he lifted the goblet and welcomed the burning sensation in his
throat. He resisted the urge to fling himself face downward into the comfort of
his bed and forced himself to return to the window. There he focused on Jack
Spade, a loyal fellow, performing his duty well in spite of its distasteful
nature. He would have to reward him.
What
count was it now? He'd lost track. Suddenly he noticed the crowd pull back.
They seemed to have no appetite for this public whipping. In the past he'd
known them to bring their cheese and loaves of bread, eating heartily while the
victim's blood splattered about them.
But
not now. Even from his high angle he could see the reflected horror in their
faces, the women, most of them, crying openly, a few, like old Dolly Wisdom,
obscuring her face with a square of white linen. And there, the girl's father,
grinning like a magpie, obviously drunk or drugged in order to endure.
And
the girl herself? Thomas looked more closely at the pinned, white, bleeding
back. His eyes grew fearful at the sight of what he had done. Perhaps he had
gone too far. He might in time have confirmed her loyalty, wooed and won her,
and led her skillfully to his bed.
Now
she would be ruined for all time, her back scarred, her virginity worse than
useless. Even men who had been publicly whipped acquired an unrecorded look, as
though they were being tried by the continuous blows of an unseen adversary. If
they survived, they wore an unwilling set of features, they became old without
reward, generally dying young.
Then
what would it do to her? In a sudden agony he again felt compelled to turn
away. Remorse invaded him. His eyes scanned the scene below him as he saw that
it was blessedly over. Jack Spade dragged his whip through the air for the last
time, then hurled it angrily into space and ran off down the narrow wind which
led to the Servants' Hall. Thomas knew he would be drunk within the hour and
well he deserved it.
He
saw the crowd push farther back as though to put a safe distance between
themselves and the poor creature hanging on the oak. From where he stood it was
his guess that she had lost consciousness, her legs spread relaxedly about the
oak, her entire body slipping down, the hair cascading over the damaged flesh
of her back.
Why
didn't someone go to her? In the name of God, why didn't someone— He saw old
Ragland shooing the witnesses even further away, waving them back toward the castle
gate, clearly disbanding them.
Only
then did Thomas remember the customary conclusion of a public
give in. "Don't fight it, Marianne. Let the oak take it." Then the
tortured male voice moved back from its mindless advice and the whip lifted
again, again came furiously down. The thickness of her tongue prohibited either
speech or outcry. Her mind reeled under the damage being done to her back, the
very bones of her spine felt exposed. A leaf of darkness had fallen across her
eyes. Her fear of the whistling sound was as great as the lash itself. A high
price for dignity, purchased with blood.
Her
distracted mind lost count, drowned in grief that she had so hopelessly
underestimated the oceanic distance between one and ten. At five, she might
have endured, perhaps six. But beyond that there was only unendurance, an awful
estrangement in her bowels, ribs pressing against flesh.
Tears
ran openly down her face. One more. Number nine? The bright light of morning
faded. The grinning child stepped closer, curious.
She
was not aware of number ten. As the whip whistled upward, she felt her heart
murdered, her body swung limp in its swing, and her mind swept into a still
quiet place where it sat and prayed,
"Once
I was. Now I can rest."
Safe
in his upper bedchamber, in the confinement of a hot white nightshirt, Thomas
Eden stood at the window and endured number five. Then he turned quickly away
in search of brandy. Damn her! Damn the girl!
With
trembling hands he lifted the goblet and welcomed the burning sensation in his
throat. He resisted the urge to fling himself face downward into the comfort of
his bed and forced himself to return to the window. There he focused on Jack
Spade, a loyal fellow, performing his duty well in spite of its distasteful
nature. He would have to reward him.
What
count was it now? He'd lost track. Suddenly he noticed the crowd pull back.
They seemed to have no appetite for this public whipping. In the past he'd
known them to bring their cheese and loaves of bread, eating heartily while the
victim's blood splattered about them.
But
not now. Even from his high angle he could see the reflected horror in their
faces, the women, most of them, crying openly, a few, like old Dolly Wisdom,
obscuring her face with a square of white linen. And there, the girl's father,
grinning like a magpie, obviously drunk or drugged in order to endure.
And
the girl herself? Thomas looked more closely at the pinned, white, bleeding
back. His eyes grew fearful at the sight of what he had done. Perhaps he had
gone too far. He might in time have confirmed her loyalty, wooed and won her,
and led her skillfully to his bed.
Now
she would be ruined for all time, her back scarred, her virginity worse than
useless. Even men who had been publicly whipped acquired an unrecorded look, as
though they were being tried by the continuous blows of an unseen adversary. If
they survived, they wore an unwilling set of features, they became old without
reward, generally dying young.
Then
what would it do to her? In a sudden agony he again felt compelled to turn
away. Remorse invaded him. His eyes scanned the scene below him as he saw that
it was blessedly over. Jack Spade dragged his whip through the air for the last
time, then hurled it angrily into space and ran off down the narrow wind which
led to the Servants' Hall. Thomas knew he would be drunk within the hour and
well he deserved it.
He
saw the crowd push farther back as though to put a safe distance between
themselves and the poor creature hanging on the oak. From where he stood it was
his guess that she had lost consciousness, her legs spread relaxedly about the
oak, her entire body slipping down, the hair cascading over the damaged flesh
of her back.
Why
didn't someone go to her? In the name of God, why didn't someone— He saw old
Ragland shooing the witnesses even further away, waving them back toward the castle
gate, clearly disbanding them.
Only
then did Thomas remember the customary conclusion of a public
Similar Books
