the crew in charge were trustworthy.
This
seemed to satisfy his Lordship. He lay back on the pillows in an obvious state
of exhaustion. His hands pressed against his eyes as though to black out the
bright sun. "Providence sent us rain, I see," he muttered.
Ragland
nodded. "Yes, milord."
"When
this thing is over, we'll go to the cove," Lord Eden added, his eyes still
covered. "I want to see for myself."
Still
a third nod from Ragland. Outside the window he heard the crowd gathering, the
curious, the sympathetic, the vindictive, the bored for whom a public whipping
was merely a morning's passable entertainment. Ragland shifted restlessly at
the door. "Will you come down to the courtyard, milord?" he asked,
his head bent forward in an air of deference.
Lord
Eden looked sharply up at him. "I'll watch from my room," he
muttered. "I can see all. Enough." Then he rolled to one side,
plumping the pillow about his head, clearly closing the conversation.
There
was nothing for Ragland to do but carry out the order. Softly he closed the
door behind him. The handsome, thickly beamed ceiling of the Morning Room
caught his eye, the rich red and green Brussels tapestries depicting the story
of Isaac and Rebecca and Sodom and Gomorrah, the pewterware and silver lined in
the lavishly carved wooden cask, the marble fireplace, a vision of luxury, like
all his Lordship's personal chambers. For an additional moment, Ragland fed on
the beauty, as though to fortify himself against what was to come. Ah, Jesus,
the gulf between the two.
As
he moved toward the staircase, he felt his joints fret with the morning
dampness, a sharp pain in his left ankle, a catch in his back. He remembered
with an acceleration of his heart his madness at the whipping oak the night
before. He grasped the hand-railing. He must have taken leave of his senses,
like poor Hartlow.
He
moved quickly toward the bottom of the stairs and saw Jack Spade standing
there, hat in hand, obviously come to find him. The man looked up hopefully as
Ragland descended the staircase. He was an enormous man, his leg muscles
bulging beneath his hose, dressed quite grandly this morning in knee trousers
and scarlet plaid as though for a fete, a custom of the whipman, a kind of
homage to the victim. But his finery did nothing to mask the obvious distress
in his face. "What's the word, Ragland?" he whispered, his normally
dull eyes alive with apprehension.
Ragland
had never seen him thus, this simple man who had whipped scores of men into
bloody pulps, and whipped others into their graves. He was known to have the
most powerful swing in all of Devon, plus the largest assortment of whips,
singular beauties with hand-tooled leather handles of varying length,
ten-thong, ffteen-thong, their slivers of leather bleached and hardened
knife-sharp, some knotted to cause greater agony, others with miniature spikes
tied carefully into each knot, capable of grating a man's back like a piece of
Cheddar cheese.
But
what made Jack Spade the premier whipman of the West Country was not his
amazing collection of whips, but rather his apparent and insatiable appetite
for his job, an appetite which Ragland saw now had clearly diminished.
At
the bottom of the steps Ragland delivered a simple, terse message, "See it
finished!" Then he pushed quickly past, not wanting to concentrate on the
man's clear distress.
But
Spade merely followed after him, protesting. "I have no urge to see it
finished, Ragland!" he shouted. "I ain't never whipped a child
before. Never whipped a woman. Something in me says no, I tell you. So I've no
urge to see it finished." He almost danced from one side to the other,
trying to keep up with Ragland, who was moving with great speed toward the
inner courtyard. His thick face flushed as he added, hurriedly, "What's
she done?" then almost plaintively added, "What's her crime?"
At
the doorway Ragland swung around, his face hard. "Her
This
seemed to satisfy his Lordship. He lay back on the pillows in an obvious state
of exhaustion. His hands pressed against his eyes as though to black out the
bright sun. "Providence sent us rain, I see," he muttered.
Ragland
nodded. "Yes, milord."
"When
this thing is over, we'll go to the cove," Lord Eden added, his eyes still
covered. "I want to see for myself."
Still
a third nod from Ragland. Outside the window he heard the crowd gathering, the
curious, the sympathetic, the vindictive, the bored for whom a public whipping
was merely a morning's passable entertainment. Ragland shifted restlessly at
the door. "Will you come down to the courtyard, milord?" he asked,
his head bent forward in an air of deference.
Lord
Eden looked sharply up at him. "I'll watch from my room," he
muttered. "I can see all. Enough." Then he rolled to one side,
plumping the pillow about his head, clearly closing the conversation.
There
was nothing for Ragland to do but carry out the order. Softly he closed the
door behind him. The handsome, thickly beamed ceiling of the Morning Room
caught his eye, the rich red and green Brussels tapestries depicting the story
of Isaac and Rebecca and Sodom and Gomorrah, the pewterware and silver lined in
the lavishly carved wooden cask, the marble fireplace, a vision of luxury, like
all his Lordship's personal chambers. For an additional moment, Ragland fed on
the beauty, as though to fortify himself against what was to come. Ah, Jesus,
the gulf between the two.
As
he moved toward the staircase, he felt his joints fret with the morning
dampness, a sharp pain in his left ankle, a catch in his back. He remembered
with an acceleration of his heart his madness at the whipping oak the night
before. He grasped the hand-railing. He must have taken leave of his senses,
like poor Hartlow.
He
moved quickly toward the bottom of the stairs and saw Jack Spade standing
there, hat in hand, obviously come to find him. The man looked up hopefully as
Ragland descended the staircase. He was an enormous man, his leg muscles
bulging beneath his hose, dressed quite grandly this morning in knee trousers
and scarlet plaid as though for a fete, a custom of the whipman, a kind of
homage to the victim. But his finery did nothing to mask the obvious distress
in his face. "What's the word, Ragland?" he whispered, his normally
dull eyes alive with apprehension.
Ragland
had never seen him thus, this simple man who had whipped scores of men into
bloody pulps, and whipped others into their graves. He was known to have the
most powerful swing in all of Devon, plus the largest assortment of whips,
singular beauties with hand-tooled leather handles of varying length,
ten-thong, ffteen-thong, their slivers of leather bleached and hardened
knife-sharp, some knotted to cause greater agony, others with miniature spikes
tied carefully into each knot, capable of grating a man's back like a piece of
Cheddar cheese.
But
what made Jack Spade the premier whipman of the West Country was not his
amazing collection of whips, but rather his apparent and insatiable appetite
for his job, an appetite which Ragland saw now had clearly diminished.
At
the bottom of the steps Ragland delivered a simple, terse message, "See it
finished!" Then he pushed quickly past, not wanting to concentrate on the
man's clear distress.
But
Spade merely followed after him, protesting. "I have no urge to see it
finished, Ragland!" he shouted. "I ain't never whipped a child
before. Never whipped a woman. Something in me says no, I tell you. So I've no
urge to see it finished." He almost danced from one side to the other,
trying to keep up with Ragland, who was moving with great speed toward the
inner courtyard. His thick face flushed as he added, hurriedly, "What's
she done?" then almost plaintively added, "What's her crime?"
At
the doorway Ragland swung around, his face hard. "Her
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