by Scott Church
April Langthorpe looked sorrowfully round the dark, squalid dungeon and weighed up her dire predicament. The cold cobbled floor was damp and slippery. Even after three days, she still could not get used to the awful smells that percolated though the slimy stone walls. Traces of bodily fluids were evident amidst the green oozing slime and the timeless graffiti scored into the old Yorkshire stone.
"Oh what is to become of me?" she mused woefully.
Dressed only in a dirty grey dress, she dreaded what she must look like after three days of squalor. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was matted and lacklustre. Her skin itched all over from the dirt and infestation she'd had to endure. Her dirty face was streaked with the tracks of her salty tears, which had flowed freely and often during her incarceration. The condemned woman began to look back on her life and analyse the events that had led up to this latest and most drastic of fixes.
The eldest of nine children, April had led a hard life from the outset. She never really had a childhood at all, having spent most of her adolescent years looking after her brothers and sisters, helping work in the fields or scrub the family house clean and do never-ending laundry. A clever girl, she had an uncanny knack of predicting the future, and being left handed too, was viewed with suspicion by her peers and other members of the village community. But she worked hard and never complained, always doing her best to look clean and attractive. However, because of the local gossip mongers, and her huge workload of chores, April found it hard to mix with others of her own age group, and was relatively old when she eventually met a boy who had time for her.
Alex was also a hard working lad, and after a short courtship, the pair of them were married, and managed to get a small tenancy on the edge of the village, where they kept chickens, goats, and sheep. For the first time in her life April felt happy, building a home and tending her animals, while Alex worked as a woodsman in the nearby forests. Her happiness was soon to be compounded when she realised she was pregnant, and the pair made preparations for the forthcoming birth.
Alas, tragedy struck poor April. Her child was stillborn, and two days later Alex was struck by lightning while at work in the woods. He died instantly. The news of these events spurred further speculation among the superstitious villagers, and April became isolated in her cottage on the edge of the little settlement. Nevertheless, being clever and industrious, the young widow quickly overcame her grief and managed to become self-sufficient with her animals and garden.
The next year was a black one in the history of the village. Crops failed and chickens refused to lay. Families were starving with lack of nourishment from the land. When it was spotted that April's chickens were still laying, jealousy and anger started to manifest among the villagers. The word 'witch' was used frequently in guarded but spiteful tones, and April was regarded with open hostility.
Eventually, one night while nursing a sickly lamb, April heard a commotion from outside her cottage. On investigation she saw that a large group of angry villagers were approaching with flaming torches. She quickly retreated into her dwelling and bolted the door. The noise got louder.
"Burn the witch!! Burn the witch!!" they chanted.
Fearing they would set fire to the cottage with her still inside it, April went out and confronted them. "I'm not a witch. I'm just a God-fearing person like the rest of you."
But the mob was having none of it. The ringleader, a troublemaker by the name of Benjamin Horne, demanded she be burned there and then, and others rushed to gather kindling. It was only the timely intervention of the parish constable saved her from a fiery fate.
And now here she was, locked up for her own safety in a dungeon beneath Boroughbridge Town Hall. She'd been told that the evil Benjamin Horne would be employed by the court to extract a confession from her, and that all sorts of sadistic techniques involving branding irons and nipple clamps would be used in the process. Even if she managed to resist confessing, she would probably suffer an excruciatingly painful death at the hands of her torturer, be burnt at the stake or tortured to death by a cruel monster. What a choice! From the high barred open window she heard the sounds of a horse-drawn carriage.
Thirty minutes later, the jailer appeared with an evil grin on his face. "There's someone come to see you, witch," he snarled menacingly.
April cringed, wondering what further torment awaited her. Her wrists were manacled, and she was led roughly up the stone stairway to the Sheriff of Boroughbridge's office. The jailer knocked on the big heavy iron-studded solid oak door, and they waited. April found it difficult to stay on her feet. After three days with just some stale bread and rancid water for nourishment she was in poor health and very weak. In addition to that she was petrified, not knowing what awful fate was to befall her.
Eventually the oppressive looking door opened and the jailer was ordered to lead April into the palatial chambers of the town Sheriff. April teetered unsteadily on her thin legs and took in her new surroundings. Behind a massive leather-clad desk in front of her sat a man dressed all in black with bushy whiskers and a severe countenance on his face. Standing to the side of the desk was the Sheriff, dressed in all his finery, apparently conducting the proceedings.
"Miss Langthorpe," he commenced, "this is Captain Fyling from York. He is the regional officer for the Witchfinder General and he has been given the evidence provided by your village people. Pay heed to what he has to say, young lady; your fate is now in his hands."
April looked from one man to the other, but saw no sign of compassion on either face. "Yes sir," she responded.
Captain Fyling looked up from the papers he'd been studying. "Please leave me alone with the accused," he said in a quiet yet commanding voice.
The Sheriff and the jailer took their leave and left April standing trembling in front of the dark mysterious looking figure sat behind the desk. Captain Fyling looked again at the papers before him. After what seemed like an age to April, he lifted his head, and looking her square in the eyes began to speak.
"So, Miss Langthorpe, what do you have to say to these charges of witchcraft?"
"It's n-nonsense, sir," April stammered. "I'm not a witch, I'm just an ordinary person." She explained the circumstances which had led to her being imprisoned and charged with witchcraft.
For the first time the Captain's face began to soften slightly. "Well young lady," he continued, "given the evidence I've got here, I'm inclined to agree with you." April couldn't believe what she was hearing; did this man really think she was innocent? "However, if I were to dismiss the case straight away there would be a riot. Some sort of test will have to be carried out to prove you are mortal."
April groaned inwardly. She'd heard of these sorts of rituals before, and they usually involved some sort of near death experience whereby if the victim survived she would be burnt as a witch. Otherwise it was just another painful death. Captain Fyling smiled as he watched the wretched girl's reactions.
"W-what will it involve?" stammered April in a frightened whisper.
"Well, I've just taken delivery of this."
With that he picked up a long hessian bag from behind the desk. He placed it on the desktop and proceeded to unwrap it carefully. April's eyes widened as he slowly revealed a long stick-like object, which resembled a miniature shepherd's crook. It was pale yellow in colour and had nobbly bits at regular intervals along its entire length. A thick layer of goose fat had been smeared all over it to preserve it and keep it pliable.
"This object is a cane, and is one of a number that have been procured from an overseas source especially for the Witchfinder General's Office." Captain Fyling stood up and carefully wiped the thick tallowy goose fat off the slender cane. Standing clear of the desk, he then rapidly swished the implement through the air in an aggressive manner. April visibly flinched at the sound it made. It was scary.
"I will administer 13 strokes with this implement to your bare buttocks, young lady. If after five days the marks have healed, you will be deemed to be a witch. If not, you will be acquitted of all charges."
April slowly took in what the man was saying to her. She was still outwardly pale but deep down she was starting to detect a glimmer of hope.
"Have you been flogged before?" asked the Captain.
"I was birched once at Sunday School," replied April remembering that painful experience when the minister had whipped her over his bench. It had been Benjamin Horne that had got her into trouble that day. She could still remember that nasty smug sneer on his face when he waited to see her after the punishment to gloat.
"Well you may find this experience a great deal more painful than that, but I'm sure you'll agree that it's your best option right now." The dark man smiled again as he felt the weight of the cane in his right hand. April detected a hint of eager anticipation in his tone.
"Y-yes sir," said April. Her hands went involuntarily to her shapely round buttocks.
"Very well, we will commence the procedure at once." A new sternness could be heard in Captain Fyling's voice.
April was once more taken down to the dungeon, and a birching horse was set up in the centre of the largest cell. Her manacles were removed and she was ordered to drape herself across the horse. Feeling weak, nauseous, and extremely frightened, the wretched girl clambered up onto the hard wooden surface of the apparatus, and stoically reached down for the legs. The jailer then secured her wrists and ankles so that she was fixed with her now vulnerable bottom pointing ominously upwards toward the dingy ceiling.
Captain Fyling slowly removed his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeve up his right arm. Stepping forward he took the hem of April's dress and flipped it over her back leaving her shapely white buttocks bare and exposed to the eager gaze of the jailer, Sheriff and her punisher. She shuddered involuntarily. The cold air on her thighs, back, and bare bottom caused goose pimples to rise, and the equally cold timber horse was uncomfortable under her hips. Captain Fyling invited the Sheriff to take up a position where he would get a close view of the cane striking the poor girl's bare bottom. The local dignitary willingly complied.
"April Langthorpe," announced Captain Fyling in a loud voice, "you are hereby accused of witchcraft and will be tested by caning. You will receive the devil's number - 13 strokes of the Witchfinder General's cane. Should the devil heal you, you will be burnt at the stake as a witch. Do you understand, girl?"
"Yes sir," replied April weakly. She stared down at the dungeon floor in the most embarrassing position she had ever assumed. She could feel the eyes of the men behind her ogling her naked bottom, and try as she might she could not clench her cheeks close enough to prevent her pussy peeping out from between them. She shut her eyes as she listened to the Captain taking up his position. There was a pause, then an eerie whooshing sound. She heard the sound before she felt the pain start to materialize across her unprotected backside.
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