It was Wednesday.

Nominally 'Laundry Day', although the two hundred or so laundry women standing in the rain on the three sides of a rough square knew that this, and Sunday, were the only days in the week that they would not be boiling water for washing other people's clothes.

They stood in nervous, expectant, silence.

The fourth side of the square was marked by a small raised platform, upon which stood the whipping stocks.

Before the platform stood a row of eight young women. Each was clad only in a thin linen shift, already damp and clinging to the contours of its wearer's body.

The thin, cold Yorkshire drizzle had soaked everything, and the miscreant's skin was already sensitized by the cold.

They were all shivering with cold and fear.

A little way apart from them stood another girl. She was naked, denied even the modicum of modesty afforded to her sisters in crime.

Their misdemeanours were slight, and their punishment would be less than hers. A lot less. They would be back at work in a few days, toiling once more for the Master.

The naked one might not survive.

The only sound was that of the Master of Hounds, coiling and uncoiling his long, heavy whip and snapping the end with a sharp crack as he grinned lasciviously into the eyes of his shivering, naked victim.

 

"Stop that bloody noise!"

The deep, commanding voice boomed around the laundry yard, echoing off the grim brickwork.

"She's going to suffer enough, without you making it worse."

A large, powerfully built man in riding garb strode into the yard and everybody present bowed their head.

Sir Lemuel Darkness was their Lord, their Master, their Owner.

His word was law. He ruled all their lives.

He was Darkness Mills, Darkness Mining, Darkness Ironworks.

He was Chief Magistrate and High Sheriff.

He made the law, judged upon the law, and administered the law.

He also owned the steam laundry which employed them all, and without which they would starve.

He stepped easily up onto the platform.

"Maggie Slythe," he called.

There was a buzz of conversation, which fell silent as Sir Lemuel's glare sliced through the crowd. A woman stepped nervously forward. She was older than the others, her back bent from years of toil. She carefully put up her hand.

"I am Maggie Slythe, Sir," she called in a thin, high pitched voice.

Sir Lemuel spoke to her softly, gently, kindly.

"You have worked here for a long time, Maggie. Nearly as long as I've been alive."

His voice was gentler still.

The old lady shuffled a little closer, nodding.

"But I can still work, Sir. Really I can." She was afraid she was about to lose her livelihood. The awful spectre of destitution and starvation loomed over her.

Sir Lemuel held up a key, making sure everyone present saw it.

"There is no need, Maggie. Nothing to be afraid of. Your work is done. You have been a good and faithful servant to me and my family, when others." He glared at the naked woman. "When others have seen fit to rob us." He turned back to Maggie and smiled kindly. "This key is for Blackberry Cottage. It is yours for as long as you need it. You will want for nothing as long as I'm standing! We all hope you will be happy and comfortable there!"

Unable to believe her good fortune, Maggie glanced around at her friends, shaking her head with disbelief.

Then she began to pour forth blessings and thanks upon the man whose family she had served for as long as she could remember.

"Joseph," Sir Lemuel turned to his Estate manager. "See she wants for nothing. Plenty of firewood, food and drink. Maggie is my guest from now on. Take a carriage and transport her belongings to her cottage, and send a couple of maids to settle her in and see she is well."

The Estate Manager knuckled his fore head. "Very Good Sir," he said, and set off to escort Maggie Slythe to her retirement.

Sir Lemuel waited until her mumbled blessings faded into the distance, then nodded to his House Mistress. She read from a prepared list.

"Lizzie Forbes, Sir. Poor quality work, Sir. Stains left on linen, folded inside to try to hide them."

A girl stepped forward, tears streaming, awaiting her fate.

"Fifty," Sir Lemuel pronounced. Harsh as it was, there was no sound from the crowd, and Lizzie knew there was no point in pleading. Whatever happened, she would get the fifty strokes.

It was the standard sentence, and exactly what Lizzie expected.

Fifty strokes from a groom's crop, delivered to her bare buttocks, reducing them to a bruised and bloody mess.

She would probably faint before it was over, but she knew she would get several days off work to recover, so it was almost worth it. And if the groom liked her, he would visit her later and sooth her hurts in that special way.

Her mouth dry, she stepped up to the pillory and placed her head and hands into the cut outs. The young groom closed the heavy top over them and locked it down. She was trapped. Bent beyond double, her head more or less level with her knees. The groom strapped on the boards which prevented her from bending her knees, so even if she fainted her rear would remain in position. Then he stood before her and placed a heavy stick of leather between her teeth. From the corner of her eye she could see the bulge in his breeches, so she could expect a visit from him in the night. It was his right to use her to relieve his own desires, no matter how much she had already suffered.

She felt him lift her damp shift off her bare skin, and felt his eyes boring into her naked backside. She spread her legs a little more, bracing herself for the onset of blazing agony.

The Groom stood and held up his crop. Sir Lemuel Darkness nodded, and the first blow crashed home.

Her entire body leapt, but she remained silent, biting hard into the leather. After a few more she was hopping on her toes, from one foot to the other. At number twenty she began to scream around the gag. Her wrists and neck were chaffed and bleeding from her frantic struggles, but the crop continued to fall unerringly.

She fainted at number forty two. A stable girl threw a bucket of water over her head, avoiding cooling her searing backside in any way. She shook her head to clear the water from her eyes and nose. Sir Lemuel nodded, and the final eight roared home.

At fifty she spat out the gag and roared her agony and anguish to the grey sky.

Sir Lemuel simply called "Doctor," watched as she was taken down and carried away, and called "Next!"