InkQuillWrites
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Cleo shook the teapot hopefully, then lifted the lid to check for certain that is was completely empty. “That was amazing! This place is so cute! she exclaimed enthusiastically, causing her friend Sarah to wince a little. “I’m so glad you’re finally showing me these quaint little places out in the country!” she said, oblivious to Sarah’s discomfort as she chased the last cake crumbs around her plate with her fork.
“Cleo!” Sarah hissed, annoyance in her tone.
“What?”
“Your American is showing.” Sarah said pointedly as she glanced around the small Yorkshire tearoom, just four wooden tables with frilly white tablecloths in a cozy, stone walled room, a cheerful fire burning in the stove to keep the early spring chill away and a view out the window to a small garden out front, daffodils out in bloom. The other customers, local by their accents, may have been politely ignoring her friend but she still keenly felt the second-hand embarrassment. Cleo might have been living in London for a couple of years now, but there were still moments where she came across as a tourist straight off the plane. Worst of all, she seemed completely oblivious to the embarrassment she was causing Sarah.
“Anyway, we should get going. It’s still a few miles back to the hostel,” Sarah continued, draining the last of her tea and reaching round to pick up her hiking rucksack from behind her chair. The two women, friends in their early twenties, were dressed for the weather. Both wore practical waterproof jackets, with Sarah wearing a red walking fleece and Cleo a knitted wool jumper underneath. Both wore warm thermal leggings under light, breathable walking trousers, thick walking socks and sturdy hiking boots, Sarah’s old and worn and Cleo’s new with only a fresh layer of today’s mud. Both women were fairly tall and athletic, Cleo a couple of inches taller than Sarah's 5’7.
Sarah waited a minute at the counter before peering through the door to the small kitchen to catch the eye of the owner. “Could we have the bill, please?” she said, rummaging in her big rucksack for her wallet.
The owner, a cheerful, middle aged man, came over with a small hand-written receipt, their two teas and cakes just about legible in his handwriting. “Was everything alreet?” he asked.
“Lovely, thank you,” Sarah said.
“That’ll be £7.80, please”
Sarah pulled her debit card out of her wallet and held it out towards the cafe owner, who looked at it awkwardly.
“Cash only, I’m afraid.”
“Ah-” Sarah blushed and shared an awkward look with her friend. “Do you have any cash?” she asked her Cleo, who shook her head. “Wait, you don’t take card at all!?” Cleo exclaimed, surprised. “Like, at all?”
“No signal for it round ‘ere,” the owner explained as the other patrons of the cafe carefully looked down, avoiding eye contact with the two city girls.
“I don’t suppose there’s a cash machine nearby?” Sarah asked, more out of hope than expectation.
“Nearest one’s five mile away,” the owner explained, and the city girls felt the cultural gap opening up between them and the kindly owner.
“Oh my God! This is so embarrassing!” Cleo exclaimed loudly, and Sarah winced once more, silently agreeing but too British to say it, instead looking down at her muddy boots and wringing her wretchedly. “Uh … we could work it off? We could do some washing up?” she asked, flushed red and mortified.
“Got me lass here, don’t need any more ‘elp” the owner said, looking at the two girls and thinking they might be a hindrance rather than a help in the tiny kitchen. “And t’ garden don’t need any work… There’s Anne and Tom, I suppose? They’re doing their re-enactment stuff today, always do first Sunday of month, and they always want volunteers.”
Sarah looked awkwardly from Cleo to the shop owner, nervously licking her lips as she worked out what to say. She’d seen the pair of middle-aged people in medieval costume in a cloth tent on the village green on her way down from the moors, but studiously ignored them and dragged Cleo past them with the lure of tea and cake before she got stuck in an awkward conversation about the intricacies of medieval weaving or how a musket worked. Having to stand up and do any kind of public speaking or performing was already a horrifying thought for Sarah, and to do so with a bunch of medieval re-enactors in costume was even more awkward. She was desperately trying to think of a way to get out of it when Cleo jumped in, grinning excitedly. “Sure! That sounds awesome!”
~~~~
Well, this is certainly one form of participation, Sarah thought, as she and Cleo were led from the tearoom. A larger-than-life man with a red face, a big beard and a rough medieval tunic cinched around the beginnings of a beer belly had turned up with a length of thick rope and two pairs of antique but still functional iron manacles.
Cleo had accepted this turn of events enthusiastically, so despite her rising reluctance Sarah had no choice but to allow her hands to be manacled in front of her. She tested the bonds and found they actually held her wrists securely, worn leather padding inside stopping them from chafing. The man then tied the rope first to Cleo’s manacles, then to hers, then led them away from the teashop, leaving rucksacks and jackets behind. Cleo looked around, eyes up and bright and enjoying the show while Sarah dragged her feet wretchedly, alternating between staring down at her muddy boots in beet-red shame and shooting daggers into Cleo’s back, praying nobody would pay attention and see their ordeal.
To her horror, she saw the man pull a heavy brass bell from his costume and heft it above his head. “HEAR YE! HEAR YE!” he bellowed, ringing the bell with enthusiasm. “Here we have a pair of MISCREANTS and NE’ER-DO-WELLS who have been APPREHENDED after ORDERING PROVISIONS without MEANS OF PAYMENT!”
Sarah couldn’t have flushed any brighter red, as her stomach sank and she prayed for the ground to swallow her up. “We didn’t mean to…” she stuttered. “I mean, we just didn’t have cash…” she trailed off in hopeless embarrassment as squire’s words started to draw a small crowd. Most infuriatingly of all, Cleo was still grinning brightly and loving the attention.
“Do you have anything to SAY for YOURSELVES?” The man bellowed.
“Do your worst! We have no regrets! We’ve done it before and we’d do it again!” Cleo hammed up, delighting in the theatrics of this unexpected improv, while Sarah’s poor brain had shorted out entirely under the sheer weight of self-conscious embarrassment. She stammered and mumbled helplessly before she could finally hiss “Cleo!”
“Then AS PAYMENT these two LASSES will have to sit in the STOCKS!” the man shouted, and, with a tug on the rope, started dragging the pair towards their tent on the village green. Cleo play-acted resistance. “No! Let us go! We’ll never repent!” she shouted, pretending to struggle and pull on her manacles while actually following enthusiastically, as Sarah trudged forward helplessly in shame, eyes down on Cleo’s heels in front of her, just hoping for her ordeal to be over as soon as possible.
When they got to the large cloth tent the re-enactors had set up on the village green, the first thing that caught their eyes were the stocks. They were heavy, solid, forbidding wooden things. Three weathered stone uprights had had slots carved in them centuries ago where a pair of heavy, ancient oak beams sat one on top of each other. On each side of the middle stone pillar two ankle holes were cut roughly into the wood, worn smooth with time and countless occupants. Between each set of holes a heavy, iron padlock latched the top and bottom beams together. The tent had been set up with the stocks at the front, with a low wooden bench, old but nowhere near as ancient, behind them. A middle-aged woman, dark curly hair streaked with a little grey, was working at a weaver’s loom, and a pair of worn muskets were propped against the back of the tent.
Cleo’s eyes sparkled as she looked at the stocks while Sarah’s stomach turned somersaults, the taste of bile in the back of her throat. They looked very, very real. “Oh my God! Are they real!” Cleo whispered loudly and excitedly to Sarah. “Like, really historic? They must be hundreds of years old! And we get to have a go in them?!”
“I don’t know. I don’t like this,” Sarah said, having second thoughts. “Maybe there’s another option? We could do some weaving instead?”
“Come on!” Cleo half-whined. “It’ll be fun! How often do we get a chance to do this?”
“I’m not sure…”
“It’ll be fine! What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Well…”
“If anything happens, it’s on me.” Cleo said. “Besides, the man already told the crowd we’re going in the stocks. We can’t let them down now, can we?”
Sarah looked glum. She’d been trying not to think about the growing crowd.
“Please?” Cleo asked, eyes wide.
“Fine,” Sarah snapped, resignedly. “But if anything happens, it’s on you. Let’s get it over with.”
Tom lead them both through a flap at the side of the tent and started fussing with the stocks, while the woman looked up from her weaving. She had a kindly face and wore a tunic matching her husband’s, cinched at the waist with a rough belt, green woollen stockings and leather medieval shoes.
“Are you alright, my dears? I’m Anne,” the woman said kindly.
“Yes!” said Cleo enthusiastically, while Sarah gave a much more half-hearted “Yeah. We just didn’t have any cash on us, and the teashop doesn’t take card. We didn’t realise-” she trailed off.
“Never mind, sweetie, it’s easily done. And you can help us put on a show! It’s always nice to be able to do a demonstration, it gets a bit dry otherwise. And the stocks always pull in a good crowd. Anyway, are you ready? It’ll only be ten minutes, then you’re free to go!” Sarah shifted awkwardly but couldn’t object as Anne gestured to the stocks “Go on, climb in, dearies.”
Cleo went first, stepping over the wooden bench slightly awkwardly because of her manacled wrists. She sat down and the man, huffing and groaning, lifted up one half of the heavy top oak bar. She slipped her feet deftly through the gap and lined her ankles up with the worn holes. The man lowered the bar, wheezing heavily, while Cleo grinned from ear to ear.
Sarah reluctantly followed her friend, looking down as she stepped gingerly over the bench before tentatively stretching out her legs and lining them up for the man to drop the other side of the beam back into place. Sitting down, she couldn’t help notice with dread that the crowd had swelled to twenty or thirty people, standing around and watching her and her friend. A few even had their phones out recording her shame. She tested the weight of the beam with her legs and found it completely immobile even before the man fussed around with the heavy iron padlock, securing it with an audible and ominous click.
She fidgeted nervously, manacled hands resting in her lap as the woman carried round a stool and sat off to one side in front of the stocks, next to Sarah. “Welcome, everyone, to a short demonstration on how these stocks would have been used to punish wrongdoers in medieval times.” She spoke clearly without having to raise her voice, but her words carried easily to the back of the small crowd like a kindly schoolteacher.
“Now, these two miscreants” she said with a smile “have been caught a little short of cash. So, as payment, they’ve volunteered to demonstrate how we might have dealt with such offenders, right here in these stocks, hundreds of years ago.”
“We had card! We just didn’t carry cash,” Sarah blurted out, red-faced, but Anne and the crowd ignored her.
“Now, what are your names, girls?”
“I’m Cleo!” Cleo said, brightly, having the time of her life, smile beaming out at the crowd.
"Sarah,” Sarah mumbled, eyes downcast.
“Shall we show Cleo and Sarah how the medieval people dealt with such offenders?” the woman asked, working the crowd, who cheered back “Yes!”
“Do your worst!” Cleo shouted back. “We’re not sorry!”
“Aha! I think we know who the ringleader is!” Anne said with a smile, glad to have a bit of participation from at least one of her volunteers to work with.
“The stocks – and the pillory, which is for the hands and neck of the offender – were used as a form of public humiliation for minor offences.” Anne continued. Sarah was still blushing bright red, feeling every ounce of that humiliation in front of the modern day crowd.
“Some offenders in the stocks or pillory would be pelted with rotten fruit or vegetables-” Sarah and Cleo shared a quick glance, Sarah looking even more anxious and even Cleo a little nervous. Surely not, they thought, before the woman continued. “But we don’t have any of that today. We didn’t even have time to get a bucket of frogspawn from the pond!” she said and the crowd laughed at the thought, while Sarah tried and failed not to imagine the cold, sticky and unpleasant sensation of wet frogspawn in her hair and down her shirt, making her squirm even more uncomfortably on the bench. Now Anne seemed to be joking, Cleo was still completely unconcerned.
“We’re not witches!” Cleo shouted back. “We don’t need a dunking!”
Anne continued with her lecture to the crowd “In the stocks like this in particular, offenders would typically be barefoot.” Sarah and Cleo exchanged another concerned glance. “Exposing the soles of the feet was felt to be particularly humiliating in this period,” the woman continued, leaning forward on the stool and starting to untie the laces on one of Sarah’s hiking boots. Sarah couldn’t help agree with the thought, suddenly very aware of her sore feet, tender after miles of hiking over the moors.
“The soles of the feet can be very sensitive parts of the body,” Anne continued, now working her way down the tongue of the boot loosening the laces while Sarah mumbled and stuttered a little “Now – hang on – we didn’t agree -”. Sarah’s breathing was getting shallower and faster. She hated people seeing her feet, and that went double with them sore and sweaty after the day’s hiking. Ignoring her feeble protests, once all the laces were loose the woman pulled the heavy boot off Sarah’s left foot with a flourish and a cheer from the crowd.
“Once barefoot, the crowd might apply a number of torments to the feet as well,” the woman continued as she repeating the process with Sarah’s left boot, Sarah squirming on the bench in deepest misery, mouth dry and heart racing as she could only watch unwillingly as her thick, heavy-soled walking boots were slowly unlaced, her feeling of vulnerability skyrocketing with the woman’s words.
“Hot pokers or branding irons would be more suitable for the dungeon than petty criminals in the stocks” she said, slipping off Sarah’s thick walking socks one at a time, toes clenching uselessly to try and keep them on, leaving Sarah’s feet, gentle arch and bubble toes with the soles bright pink from the walking, exposed to the cool air and the crowd. She flushed even brighter red, unable to tear her eyes away from the crowd watching her embarrassment, rattling the padlock between them as she tried in vain to cover one foot up with the other, desperate for a shred of modesty.
The woman then got up and walked to the other side of the stocks, to the right of Cleo. Cleo tried to put on more of a show, crying “We can take it! We’re not sorry!” as the woman slowly and theatrically unlaced her boot in the same way.
“They might hit the tender soles with sticks” she continued, pulling off Cleo’s left boot with another flourish, Cleo pretending to kick in mock defiance.
“But the most common punishment doled out was to tickle their feet.”
Cleo’s eyes shot wide open, her mouth dropped soundlessly and she kicked and rattled her bonds with genuine urgency. Sarah looked over in surprise, her own stomach twisting a little at the idea of being tickled in front of the crowd but shocked at the extreme reaction from her previously confident friend. Cleo’s remaining booted foot shook violently in the woman’s hands as Anne continued to steadily loosen the laces, Cleo’s head shaking and silently mouthing “No”. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd at her response, and the biggest cheer yet went up as the woman tugged off her boot and thick walking socks, leaving her pale, slender soles and long toes exposed alongside Sarah’s.
“From your reaction, dearie, I’d guess you’re very ticklish.” the woman said conversationally as Cleo stared, face pale with her eyes wide open, unable to comprehend such awful words coming from the kindly woman’s mouth. “Am I right?”
“No…” Cleo said, all confidence dissolved before she jolted as if electrocuted, letting out a squeaky cry as the woman traced her fingers lightly and slowly up her right sole from heel to toe.
“Now, back in the old days, they’d leave thieves out in the stocks for hours” she said casually to the crowd as she hovered her hand over Cleo’s other heel, Cleo’s every muscle tensing in anticipation, manacled hands gripping the edge of the bench, heart pounding, foot twitching involuntarily side to side as she waited in terror for the next touch, before suddenly and violently twisting and jerking on the stool as the woman lightly traced her fingers lightly up her other foot. She started to walk her nails lightly up Cleo’s sole, one stroke, two strokes, three strokes, and Cleo started to howl “no – NO – NO!!!” in rising panic before the woman stopped, leaving Cleo panting, eyes wide. “Not that! Anything but that!”
“Aww, but there are consequences for not being able to pay, dearie!” she said, sweetly. “We know that, don’t we?” she asked the crowd, who shouted back their agreement.
“I’ll be back to you later, Miss Ringleader,” she said with a grin, but for now she walked back to sit on her stool by Sarah, leaving Cleo sitting petrified. “But now, dearie, we can’t be having that!” she said, not unkindly, pointing to Sarah’s feet clamped one on top of the other. “Huh?” Sarah said, confused, staring back at Cleo’s horrified face.
“Come on, dearie” she said, picking up a little leather cuff on a string from behind the stocks and slipping it around the big toe of Sarah’s top foot. She looped the string around a hook on the top of the oak stocks and with a firm tug pulled Sarah’s top foot away and over to the side, sliding it off the one underneath. She quickly repeated the process with Sarah’s left foot, spreading her two feet apart and exposing both soles. “It’s only half a punishment otherwise. Give the crowd a wave, now!” she said with a grin, triggering yet another deep blush from Sarah as her flushed soles were now hopelessly bared, spread and exposed to the crowd. Her warm and sensible other layers – thick fleece, thermal leggings under walking trousers – made her trapped feet feel even more bare and vulnerable as the soft, cool breeze played over her soft, tender skin.
“Now, are you ticklish, too, dearie?” she asked Sarah, before lightly tracing her fingers up Sarah’s soles like she had done to Cleo. Sarah flinched slightly but otherwise, to her relief, the light touch did very little. Cleo looked across at her in amazement. “Wait, are you not ticklish?”
“A little?” Sarah said, half to Cleo and half to the woman at her feet, who started to dance her nails along Sarah’s soles, making her squirm a little in her seat. “It -” she scrunched up her face. “-tihickles a little bit.” she said, giving a particular twitch as the woman hit a spot in the middle of her arch with a little more pressure. “It’s not too-ho bad, though!” she said with relief, drawing strength from Cleo’s surprise. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad for her, Sarah wondered.
“Now, there were other things they would do as well. Sometimes they would brush salt water onto the prisoner’s feet and have goats lick it off with their rough tongues,” the woman continued conversationally, working over Sarah’s feet with her fingers, trying different spots and different pressures but not getting much more than a squirm and the odd giggle out of Sarah. Cleo, however, was watching the fingers dance with abject horror, her feet squirming involuntarily in memory of how bad the light touch was. “Now, we don’t have any goats today, but for miscreants who aren’t very ticklish we do have a brush-” she said, disappearing into the back of the tent and returning with a worn wooden scrub brush and a pail of soapy water.
Sarah looked nervously at the brush, while Cleo stared at it as if she’d prefer the red-hot poker or branding iron. As the woman leant forward and started to scrub the brush with vigour over Sarah’s soles, her squirming became increasingly uncontrollable and the occasional giggle slowly fountained up into a steady stream of laughter. “OK! Ohohohok! I am ticklish!”
“Are you sorry?”
“Yehehehes! We’re sohohohohorehehee!!” Sarah’s melodious laughter bubbled out as the brush, worn, bristles still slightly rough but sliding slickly with the soapy foam was scrubbed around her heel and across the pad of her foot. Anne switched from one foot to the other as Sarah squirmed in deep mortification, hating to lose composure and be rendered so helpless in front of the crowd who were lapping up her shame with relish. Cleo watched the brush with darkest dread, staring in terror as it started to break down Sarah’s resolve, while Sarah’s eyes flicked from phone to phone, cameras pointed at her accusingly, imagining with horror the risk of this going viral. Imagine if her friends saw this! Or her colleagues, she thought with a deeper shudder.
“Do you repent? Will you do it again?”
“We repehehehent!! We’re sohohohreeee!” Sarah squealed out, and finally the woman stopped.
“And that’s how justice was handed hundreds of years ago,” the woman said to the crowd as Sarah slumped down, relieved. “Now, let’s give a big round of applause to Sarah!” she said, and the crowd obliged, clapping and cheering a little while Sarah squirmed awkwardly, hating every second of her appreciation. The girls shared a glance. Perhaps this was now over, they thought.
“-And now on to deal with the ringleader!” the woman continued, Cleo’s eyes suddenly springing wide again.
“Nononono” she mouthed helplessly.
“You did said you were the ringleader,” the woman said, and Cleo’s brain started to spin as the crowd’s hungry focus switched to her. “Uh … no. No I’m not! Please don’t!”
“No? One of you must be?” Anne asked.
“It was Sarah’s idea!” she said, desperately, drawing a gasp from Sarah and from the crowd.
“What?!” Sarah said, as the woman turned her attention back towards her.
“Do we need to deal with her more severely?” the woman asked, gesturing with the brush back to Sarah’s soles. Sarah shook her head wildly as Cleo, grasping at a lifeline, shouted. “Yes! It was her idea!”, she cried, the bitter taste of guilt swept away by the overwhelming tide of fear, tears in her eyes, her feet already tingling almost unbearably in anticipation.
“Cleo!” Sarah hissed, shocked and dismayed at her friend’s betrayal. “How could you!”
“Do we believe her?” the woman asked, working the crowd.
“No!” a couple of people in the crowd shouted back, a little hesitantly.
“Do we believe her?” the woman repeated.
“No!” the crowd roared more enthusiastically as Cleo tried to back away as far as she could in her stool, feet right back against the heavy wood of the stocks and legs straining as far as possible to get away from the judgement of the angry crowd.
“Do we need to punish her for lying?” the woman asked.
“Yes!” the crowd roared while Cleo shook her head silently.
“Do we need to punish her for betraying her friend?”
“Yes!!!” the crowd shouted.
“And, you, dearie,” the woman said to Sarah, “she led you astray, yes?”
“Yes” Sarah said quietly.
“And then tries to pin the blame on you!”
“Yes!” Sarah said a little louder, unable to keep her annoyance out of her voice.
“But you’ve already learnt your lesson, right?”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” she said nervously, not wanting to be the centre of attention any longer.
“If we let you out, will you help me show Cleo the error of her ways?”
“Yes!”, she said quickly. Sarah would have agreed to almost anything to be let out of those stocks, but as she shot a look at Cleo she found her annoyance boiling over. It was Cleo who got them enthusiastically stuck in these stocks, and Cleo who egged on the crowd. And then to be stabbed in the back like that! So, to her surprise, Sarah suddenly found she very much did want a chance to show Cleo the error of her ways. Cleo flinched back away from Sarah as a sudden, hungry look passed over her face.
“Now – Sarah, I didn’t mean it – Sarah…” Cleo stammered as Sarah’s manacles were unlocked. She rubbed her wrists while her toes were unlooped and the padlock removed from her side of the stocks. As the man hefted her side of the wooden bar, she snatched her ankles back as soon as she could possible squeeze them out. She was given a towel to quickly dry her feet, before jamming them back into her thick socks and rapidly lacing up her heavy walking boots, confidence returning somewhat as she again felt thick, protective boot soles between her and the world. Cleo could only watch with miserable longing as her desperately ticklish soles were still exposed and pointed at the crowd, now riled up and looking forward to her doom. Her long toes twitched in fear as she turned helpless, pleading eyes to Sarah.
Sarah was handed another stool and bounded round to the front of the stocks, now sitting in front of Cleo to the other side of the woman. She grinned widely as she was handed a little leather cuff on a string, and knew exactly what to do. Cleo flapped her feet wildly, shaking her head and mouthing “no” to Sarah, but in tandem, the two women slipped the cuffs over Cleo’s big toes and each pulled one back, like fishermen landing a flailing catch, tying them off and leaving Cleo’s long feet stretched and taut.
To her surprise, a spark of real thrill came to life in Sarah’s heart as she looked over at Cleo, pleading helplessly with her eyes. After being dragged along in Cleo’s wake for so long today, she found a sudden sweet excitement at the power she now held over her friend. Cleo saw the unexpected gleam in Sarah’s eyes and instinctively cringed away from it, further feeding Sarah’s rising thrill.
“Ready, dearie?” the woman asked Sarah, ignoring Cleo’s protests.
“Three”
“No...nonono… Sarah…”
“Two”
“Sarahsarahplease…”
“One”
“pleasepleasepleaseSarahNONONO!!”
Cleo’s voice leapt and a sudden wall of sound assaulted the crowd as both ladies started dancing their fingers on Cleo’s feet. There was no gradual build up, no need to apply technique or find weaknesses on someone as desperately ticklish as Cleo, and her nerves, so wound and frayed over the course of the performance heightened her senses to explode like the snapping of an overstetched rope. Her laughter was more animal howl than melodious tune, and the heavy stocks shook, even the stone uprights creaking slightly as Cleo strained to uproot them from the ground, the crowd silent and rapt at the extraordinary scene in front of them.
Sarah watched, entranced, studying Cleo’s face as her thrashing dislodged her hair from it’s neat ponytail to fly in a wild cloud around her head. She was intoxicated by the incredible control that such a small thing as her idly flicking fingers on her friend’s soft soles gave her over the normally so confident Cleo.
The two women held Cleo suspended in that long, torturous, frozen moment as she sucked in two, three, four deep lungfuls of air to sustain her fight, before she quickly began to tire and slump in her stool, howling laughter trailing off as she struggled to get the air to sustain it.
Anne made a gesture and, reluctantly, Sarah stopped tickling her friend. Cleo took a moment or two to realise, feet still flexing backwards and forwards in the little room they had, hair sticking wildly to her face flushed red with exertion.
“And that,” the woman said, gesturing to the stunned crowd, “is what happened to the ringleaders! Are you both sorry?”
Cleo was almost too stunned to answer. “Wha?” she asked, panting heavily.
“I think that means she’s sorry! Now, let’s do a little collection to settle the bill-” she said, starting to pass a cap around the crowd, who started to rummage in their pockets for loose change. “Do you want to let her out now, dearie?”
Sarah looked at Cleo, slumped on the stool, then back at her exposed, bare feet, still twitching slightly. She remembered that desperate thrill of power she’d held over her friend, and to her surprise she wasn’t ready to give it up. A spark of an idea came to her, and, as she wrestled with her conscience, for once, her conscience lost.
“Um-” Sarah spoke up, hesitantly. “Er – she did say we should do our worst,” she said, a little more confidently. “And – er -” she smiled sweetly “- we haven’t used that scrubbing brush, like I got.”
These words, red hot, cut through Cleo’s thickly fatigued mind. She shot straight up in her seat again. “Sarah!” she hissed, shocked. “You wouldn’t!”
“And I do want to be sure she’s fully reformed,” Sarah added, mock-virtuously.
Anne hesitated a moment. This was further than she had planned to push Cleo, but as it was coming from her friend. The crowd seemed keen, and after such a successful show she didn’t want to end on a down note by denying them their entertainment.
“Go right ahead, sweetie,” she said, as Sarah dunked the brush in the bucket with enthusiasm, loading it’s surface with soapy foam.
“Sarah! Sarahsarahsarah…” Cleo stammered.
“This was your idea, Cleo!” Sarah said, brightly. “Going to be awesome, you said!”
“Sarah…” Cleo pleaded, staring at the foamy brush as her friend brought it slowly closer to her feet.
“If anything happens, it’s on you, you said!”
“Sarah!” Cleo whined. “Please”
“It was my idea, you said!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!!!”
“Ready?”
“No” Cleo mouthed, wordlessly, but nothing could have stopped Sarah’s anger and frustration from descending on Cleo’s bound and helpless feet, brush scrubbing furiously top to bottom along her slender soles and deep arches, one, two, three strokes on one foot before jumping to the other and back again vengefully. The bench behind the stocks, heavy though it was, toppled underneath Cleo’s thrashing but Sarah didn’t pause as Cleo went sprawling backwards to writhe on the ground, ankles still held a little higher in the stocks and poor, sensitive, ticklish soles still staked out helplessly beneath Sarah’s determined, merciless scrubbing. It wasn’t until the cap had been around the crowd twice and Anne laid a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder that the trance broke and she looked beyond the brush, beyond Cleo’s feet and over the stocks to see Cleo lying on her back, exhausted, dusty, twitching and mewling slightly, with tears streaming down her face and hair matted beneath her.
She dashed around and scooped Cleo up into a big hug while Anne and Tom freed her feet from the stocks. “Are you OK?!” she asked, suddenly worried.
“Oh my god.” Cleo panted, exhausted. “What was that?”
“I’m sorry! I got carried away!” Sarah said.
“That was hell!”
“It was your idea! I hated the whole thing! You were loving it. You kinda deserved it.”
Cleo sat up slightly, shifting her weight onto Sarah. “Yeah. I kinda deserved it. I did push you into the whole thing. And did throw you under the bus at the end.” She looked down sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“I think we’re even now,” Sarah said with a grin.
“Good, because I’m never, ever, doing anything like that again.”
Why did Sarah feel a slight pang of regret at that, she wondered? She shoved the thought down quickly as Cleo pulled her socks and boots back on. The money from the crowd had raised enough to pay their bill and left them with a little extra, and as she helped the exhausted Cleo to climb slowly back up on to the moors she was certain of one thing. She’d never, ever go anywhere without cash again.
Cleo shook the teapot hopefully, then lifted the lid to check for certain that is was completely empty. “That was amazing! This place is so cute! she exclaimed enthusiastically, causing her friend Sarah to wince a little. “I’m so glad you’re finally showing me these quaint little places out in the country!” she said, oblivious to Sarah’s discomfort as she chased the last cake crumbs around her plate with her fork.
“Cleo!” Sarah hissed, annoyance in her tone.
“What?”
“Your American is showing.” Sarah said pointedly as she glanced around the small Yorkshire tearoom, just four wooden tables with frilly white tablecloths in a cozy, stone walled room, a cheerful fire burning in the stove to keep the early spring chill away and a view out the window to a small garden out front, daffodils out in bloom. The other customers, local by their accents, may have been politely ignoring her friend but she still keenly felt the second-hand embarrassment. Cleo might have been living in London for a couple of years now, but there were still moments where she came across as a tourist straight off the plane. Worst of all, she seemed completely oblivious to the embarrassment she was causing Sarah.
“Anyway, we should get going. It’s still a few miles back to the hostel,” Sarah continued, draining the last of her tea and reaching round to pick up her hiking rucksack from behind her chair. The two women, friends in their early twenties, were dressed for the weather. Both wore practical waterproof jackets, with Sarah wearing a red walking fleece and Cleo a knitted wool jumper underneath. Both wore warm thermal leggings under light, breathable walking trousers, thick walking socks and sturdy hiking boots, Sarah’s old and worn and Cleo’s new with only a fresh layer of today’s mud. Both women were fairly tall and athletic, Cleo a couple of inches taller than Sarah's 5’7.
Sarah waited a minute at the counter before peering through the door to the small kitchen to catch the eye of the owner. “Could we have the bill, please?” she said, rummaging in her big rucksack for her wallet.
The owner, a cheerful, middle aged man, came over with a small hand-written receipt, their two teas and cakes just about legible in his handwriting. “Was everything alreet?” he asked.
“Lovely, thank you,” Sarah said.
“That’ll be £7.80, please”
Sarah pulled her debit card out of her wallet and held it out towards the cafe owner, who looked at it awkwardly.
“Cash only, I’m afraid.”
“Ah-” Sarah blushed and shared an awkward look with her friend. “Do you have any cash?” she asked her Cleo, who shook her head. “Wait, you don’t take card at all!?” Cleo exclaimed, surprised. “Like, at all?”
“No signal for it round ‘ere,” the owner explained as the other patrons of the cafe carefully looked down, avoiding eye contact with the two city girls.
“I don’t suppose there’s a cash machine nearby?” Sarah asked, more out of hope than expectation.
“Nearest one’s five mile away,” the owner explained, and the city girls felt the cultural gap opening up between them and the kindly owner.
“Oh my God! This is so embarrassing!” Cleo exclaimed loudly, and Sarah winced once more, silently agreeing but too British to say it, instead looking down at her muddy boots and wringing her wretchedly. “Uh … we could work it off? We could do some washing up?” she asked, flushed red and mortified.
“Got me lass here, don’t need any more ‘elp” the owner said, looking at the two girls and thinking they might be a hindrance rather than a help in the tiny kitchen. “And t’ garden don’t need any work… There’s Anne and Tom, I suppose? They’re doing their re-enactment stuff today, always do first Sunday of month, and they always want volunteers.”
Sarah looked awkwardly from Cleo to the shop owner, nervously licking her lips as she worked out what to say. She’d seen the pair of middle-aged people in medieval costume in a cloth tent on the village green on her way down from the moors, but studiously ignored them and dragged Cleo past them with the lure of tea and cake before she got stuck in an awkward conversation about the intricacies of medieval weaving or how a musket worked. Having to stand up and do any kind of public speaking or performing was already a horrifying thought for Sarah, and to do so with a bunch of medieval re-enactors in costume was even more awkward. She was desperately trying to think of a way to get out of it when Cleo jumped in, grinning excitedly. “Sure! That sounds awesome!”
~~~~
Well, this is certainly one form of participation, Sarah thought, as she and Cleo were led from the tearoom. A larger-than-life man with a red face, a big beard and a rough medieval tunic cinched around the beginnings of a beer belly had turned up with a length of thick rope and two pairs of antique but still functional iron manacles.
Cleo had accepted this turn of events enthusiastically, so despite her rising reluctance Sarah had no choice but to allow her hands to be manacled in front of her. She tested the bonds and found they actually held her wrists securely, worn leather padding inside stopping them from chafing. The man then tied the rope first to Cleo’s manacles, then to hers, then led them away from the teashop, leaving rucksacks and jackets behind. Cleo looked around, eyes up and bright and enjoying the show while Sarah dragged her feet wretchedly, alternating between staring down at her muddy boots in beet-red shame and shooting daggers into Cleo’s back, praying nobody would pay attention and see their ordeal.
To her horror, she saw the man pull a heavy brass bell from his costume and heft it above his head. “HEAR YE! HEAR YE!” he bellowed, ringing the bell with enthusiasm. “Here we have a pair of MISCREANTS and NE’ER-DO-WELLS who have been APPREHENDED after ORDERING PROVISIONS without MEANS OF PAYMENT!”
Sarah couldn’t have flushed any brighter red, as her stomach sank and she prayed for the ground to swallow her up. “We didn’t mean to…” she stuttered. “I mean, we just didn’t have cash…” she trailed off in hopeless embarrassment as squire’s words started to draw a small crowd. Most infuriatingly of all, Cleo was still grinning brightly and loving the attention.
“Do you have anything to SAY for YOURSELVES?” The man bellowed.
“Do your worst! We have no regrets! We’ve done it before and we’d do it again!” Cleo hammed up, delighting in the theatrics of this unexpected improv, while Sarah’s poor brain had shorted out entirely under the sheer weight of self-conscious embarrassment. She stammered and mumbled helplessly before she could finally hiss “Cleo!”
“Then AS PAYMENT these two LASSES will have to sit in the STOCKS!” the man shouted, and, with a tug on the rope, started dragging the pair towards their tent on the village green. Cleo play-acted resistance. “No! Let us go! We’ll never repent!” she shouted, pretending to struggle and pull on her manacles while actually following enthusiastically, as Sarah trudged forward helplessly in shame, eyes down on Cleo’s heels in front of her, just hoping for her ordeal to be over as soon as possible.
When they got to the large cloth tent the re-enactors had set up on the village green, the first thing that caught their eyes were the stocks. They were heavy, solid, forbidding wooden things. Three weathered stone uprights had had slots carved in them centuries ago where a pair of heavy, ancient oak beams sat one on top of each other. On each side of the middle stone pillar two ankle holes were cut roughly into the wood, worn smooth with time and countless occupants. Between each set of holes a heavy, iron padlock latched the top and bottom beams together. The tent had been set up with the stocks at the front, with a low wooden bench, old but nowhere near as ancient, behind them. A middle-aged woman, dark curly hair streaked with a little grey, was working at a weaver’s loom, and a pair of worn muskets were propped against the back of the tent.
Cleo’s eyes sparkled as she looked at the stocks while Sarah’s stomach turned somersaults, the taste of bile in the back of her throat. They looked very, very real. “Oh my God! Are they real!” Cleo whispered loudly and excitedly to Sarah. “Like, really historic? They must be hundreds of years old! And we get to have a go in them?!”
“I don’t know. I don’t like this,” Sarah said, having second thoughts. “Maybe there’s another option? We could do some weaving instead?”
“Come on!” Cleo half-whined. “It’ll be fun! How often do we get a chance to do this?”
“I’m not sure…”
“It’ll be fine! What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Well…”
“If anything happens, it’s on me.” Cleo said. “Besides, the man already told the crowd we’re going in the stocks. We can’t let them down now, can we?”
Sarah looked glum. She’d been trying not to think about the growing crowd.
“Please?” Cleo asked, eyes wide.
“Fine,” Sarah snapped, resignedly. “But if anything happens, it’s on you. Let’s get it over with.”
Tom lead them both through a flap at the side of the tent and started fussing with the stocks, while the woman looked up from her weaving. She had a kindly face and wore a tunic matching her husband’s, cinched at the waist with a rough belt, green woollen stockings and leather medieval shoes.
“Are you alright, my dears? I’m Anne,” the woman said kindly.
“Yes!” said Cleo enthusiastically, while Sarah gave a much more half-hearted “Yeah. We just didn’t have any cash on us, and the teashop doesn’t take card. We didn’t realise-” she trailed off.
“Never mind, sweetie, it’s easily done. And you can help us put on a show! It’s always nice to be able to do a demonstration, it gets a bit dry otherwise. And the stocks always pull in a good crowd. Anyway, are you ready? It’ll only be ten minutes, then you’re free to go!” Sarah shifted awkwardly but couldn’t object as Anne gestured to the stocks “Go on, climb in, dearies.”
Cleo went first, stepping over the wooden bench slightly awkwardly because of her manacled wrists. She sat down and the man, huffing and groaning, lifted up one half of the heavy top oak bar. She slipped her feet deftly through the gap and lined her ankles up with the worn holes. The man lowered the bar, wheezing heavily, while Cleo grinned from ear to ear.
Sarah reluctantly followed her friend, looking down as she stepped gingerly over the bench before tentatively stretching out her legs and lining them up for the man to drop the other side of the beam back into place. Sitting down, she couldn’t help notice with dread that the crowd had swelled to twenty or thirty people, standing around and watching her and her friend. A few even had their phones out recording her shame. She tested the weight of the beam with her legs and found it completely immobile even before the man fussed around with the heavy iron padlock, securing it with an audible and ominous click.
She fidgeted nervously, manacled hands resting in her lap as the woman carried round a stool and sat off to one side in front of the stocks, next to Sarah. “Welcome, everyone, to a short demonstration on how these stocks would have been used to punish wrongdoers in medieval times.” She spoke clearly without having to raise her voice, but her words carried easily to the back of the small crowd like a kindly schoolteacher.
“Now, these two miscreants” she said with a smile “have been caught a little short of cash. So, as payment, they’ve volunteered to demonstrate how we might have dealt with such offenders, right here in these stocks, hundreds of years ago.”
“We had card! We just didn’t carry cash,” Sarah blurted out, red-faced, but Anne and the crowd ignored her.
“Now, what are your names, girls?”
“I’m Cleo!” Cleo said, brightly, having the time of her life, smile beaming out at the crowd.
"Sarah,” Sarah mumbled, eyes downcast.
“Shall we show Cleo and Sarah how the medieval people dealt with such offenders?” the woman asked, working the crowd, who cheered back “Yes!”
“Do your worst!” Cleo shouted back. “We’re not sorry!”
“Aha! I think we know who the ringleader is!” Anne said with a smile, glad to have a bit of participation from at least one of her volunteers to work with.
“The stocks – and the pillory, which is for the hands and neck of the offender – were used as a form of public humiliation for minor offences.” Anne continued. Sarah was still blushing bright red, feeling every ounce of that humiliation in front of the modern day crowd.
“Some offenders in the stocks or pillory would be pelted with rotten fruit or vegetables-” Sarah and Cleo shared a quick glance, Sarah looking even more anxious and even Cleo a little nervous. Surely not, they thought, before the woman continued. “But we don’t have any of that today. We didn’t even have time to get a bucket of frogspawn from the pond!” she said and the crowd laughed at the thought, while Sarah tried and failed not to imagine the cold, sticky and unpleasant sensation of wet frogspawn in her hair and down her shirt, making her squirm even more uncomfortably on the bench. Now Anne seemed to be joking, Cleo was still completely unconcerned.
“We’re not witches!” Cleo shouted back. “We don’t need a dunking!”
Anne continued with her lecture to the crowd “In the stocks like this in particular, offenders would typically be barefoot.” Sarah and Cleo exchanged another concerned glance. “Exposing the soles of the feet was felt to be particularly humiliating in this period,” the woman continued, leaning forward on the stool and starting to untie the laces on one of Sarah’s hiking boots. Sarah couldn’t help agree with the thought, suddenly very aware of her sore feet, tender after miles of hiking over the moors.
“The soles of the feet can be very sensitive parts of the body,” Anne continued, now working her way down the tongue of the boot loosening the laces while Sarah mumbled and stuttered a little “Now – hang on – we didn’t agree -”. Sarah’s breathing was getting shallower and faster. She hated people seeing her feet, and that went double with them sore and sweaty after the day’s hiking. Ignoring her feeble protests, once all the laces were loose the woman pulled the heavy boot off Sarah’s left foot with a flourish and a cheer from the crowd.
“Once barefoot, the crowd might apply a number of torments to the feet as well,” the woman continued as she repeating the process with Sarah’s left boot, Sarah squirming on the bench in deepest misery, mouth dry and heart racing as she could only watch unwillingly as her thick, heavy-soled walking boots were slowly unlaced, her feeling of vulnerability skyrocketing with the woman’s words.
“Hot pokers or branding irons would be more suitable for the dungeon than petty criminals in the stocks” she said, slipping off Sarah’s thick walking socks one at a time, toes clenching uselessly to try and keep them on, leaving Sarah’s feet, gentle arch and bubble toes with the soles bright pink from the walking, exposed to the cool air and the crowd. She flushed even brighter red, unable to tear her eyes away from the crowd watching her embarrassment, rattling the padlock between them as she tried in vain to cover one foot up with the other, desperate for a shred of modesty.
The woman then got up and walked to the other side of the stocks, to the right of Cleo. Cleo tried to put on more of a show, crying “We can take it! We’re not sorry!” as the woman slowly and theatrically unlaced her boot in the same way.
“They might hit the tender soles with sticks” she continued, pulling off Cleo’s left boot with another flourish, Cleo pretending to kick in mock defiance.
“But the most common punishment doled out was to tickle their feet.”
Cleo’s eyes shot wide open, her mouth dropped soundlessly and she kicked and rattled her bonds with genuine urgency. Sarah looked over in surprise, her own stomach twisting a little at the idea of being tickled in front of the crowd but shocked at the extreme reaction from her previously confident friend. Cleo’s remaining booted foot shook violently in the woman’s hands as Anne continued to steadily loosen the laces, Cleo’s head shaking and silently mouthing “No”. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd at her response, and the biggest cheer yet went up as the woman tugged off her boot and thick walking socks, leaving her pale, slender soles and long toes exposed alongside Sarah’s.
“From your reaction, dearie, I’d guess you’re very ticklish.” the woman said conversationally as Cleo stared, face pale with her eyes wide open, unable to comprehend such awful words coming from the kindly woman’s mouth. “Am I right?”
“No…” Cleo said, all confidence dissolved before she jolted as if electrocuted, letting out a squeaky cry as the woman traced her fingers lightly and slowly up her right sole from heel to toe.
“Now, back in the old days, they’d leave thieves out in the stocks for hours” she said casually to the crowd as she hovered her hand over Cleo’s other heel, Cleo’s every muscle tensing in anticipation, manacled hands gripping the edge of the bench, heart pounding, foot twitching involuntarily side to side as she waited in terror for the next touch, before suddenly and violently twisting and jerking on the stool as the woman lightly traced her fingers lightly up her other foot. She started to walk her nails lightly up Cleo’s sole, one stroke, two strokes, three strokes, and Cleo started to howl “no – NO – NO!!!” in rising panic before the woman stopped, leaving Cleo panting, eyes wide. “Not that! Anything but that!”
“Aww, but there are consequences for not being able to pay, dearie!” she said, sweetly. “We know that, don’t we?” she asked the crowd, who shouted back their agreement.
“I’ll be back to you later, Miss Ringleader,” she said with a grin, but for now she walked back to sit on her stool by Sarah, leaving Cleo sitting petrified. “But now, dearie, we can’t be having that!” she said, not unkindly, pointing to Sarah’s feet clamped one on top of the other. “Huh?” Sarah said, confused, staring back at Cleo’s horrified face.
“Come on, dearie” she said, picking up a little leather cuff on a string from behind the stocks and slipping it around the big toe of Sarah’s top foot. She looped the string around a hook on the top of the oak stocks and with a firm tug pulled Sarah’s top foot away and over to the side, sliding it off the one underneath. She quickly repeated the process with Sarah’s left foot, spreading her two feet apart and exposing both soles. “It’s only half a punishment otherwise. Give the crowd a wave, now!” she said with a grin, triggering yet another deep blush from Sarah as her flushed soles were now hopelessly bared, spread and exposed to the crowd. Her warm and sensible other layers – thick fleece, thermal leggings under walking trousers – made her trapped feet feel even more bare and vulnerable as the soft, cool breeze played over her soft, tender skin.
“Now, are you ticklish, too, dearie?” she asked Sarah, before lightly tracing her fingers up Sarah’s soles like she had done to Cleo. Sarah flinched slightly but otherwise, to her relief, the light touch did very little. Cleo looked across at her in amazement. “Wait, are you not ticklish?”
“A little?” Sarah said, half to Cleo and half to the woman at her feet, who started to dance her nails along Sarah’s soles, making her squirm a little in her seat. “It -” she scrunched up her face. “-tihickles a little bit.” she said, giving a particular twitch as the woman hit a spot in the middle of her arch with a little more pressure. “It’s not too-ho bad, though!” she said with relief, drawing strength from Cleo’s surprise. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad for her, Sarah wondered.
“Now, there were other things they would do as well. Sometimes they would brush salt water onto the prisoner’s feet and have goats lick it off with their rough tongues,” the woman continued conversationally, working over Sarah’s feet with her fingers, trying different spots and different pressures but not getting much more than a squirm and the odd giggle out of Sarah. Cleo, however, was watching the fingers dance with abject horror, her feet squirming involuntarily in memory of how bad the light touch was. “Now, we don’t have any goats today, but for miscreants who aren’t very ticklish we do have a brush-” she said, disappearing into the back of the tent and returning with a worn wooden scrub brush and a pail of soapy water.
Sarah looked nervously at the brush, while Cleo stared at it as if she’d prefer the red-hot poker or branding iron. As the woman leant forward and started to scrub the brush with vigour over Sarah’s soles, her squirming became increasingly uncontrollable and the occasional giggle slowly fountained up into a steady stream of laughter. “OK! Ohohohok! I am ticklish!”
“Are you sorry?”
“Yehehehes! We’re sohohohohorehehee!!” Sarah’s melodious laughter bubbled out as the brush, worn, bristles still slightly rough but sliding slickly with the soapy foam was scrubbed around her heel and across the pad of her foot. Anne switched from one foot to the other as Sarah squirmed in deep mortification, hating to lose composure and be rendered so helpless in front of the crowd who were lapping up her shame with relish. Cleo watched the brush with darkest dread, staring in terror as it started to break down Sarah’s resolve, while Sarah’s eyes flicked from phone to phone, cameras pointed at her accusingly, imagining with horror the risk of this going viral. Imagine if her friends saw this! Or her colleagues, she thought with a deeper shudder.
“Do you repent? Will you do it again?”
“We repehehehent!! We’re sohohohreeee!” Sarah squealed out, and finally the woman stopped.
“And that’s how justice was handed hundreds of years ago,” the woman said to the crowd as Sarah slumped down, relieved. “Now, let’s give a big round of applause to Sarah!” she said, and the crowd obliged, clapping and cheering a little while Sarah squirmed awkwardly, hating every second of her appreciation. The girls shared a glance. Perhaps this was now over, they thought.
“-And now on to deal with the ringleader!” the woman continued, Cleo’s eyes suddenly springing wide again.
“Nononono” she mouthed helplessly.
“You did said you were the ringleader,” the woman said, and Cleo’s brain started to spin as the crowd’s hungry focus switched to her. “Uh … no. No I’m not! Please don’t!”
“No? One of you must be?” Anne asked.
“It was Sarah’s idea!” she said, desperately, drawing a gasp from Sarah and from the crowd.
“What?!” Sarah said, as the woman turned her attention back towards her.
“Do we need to deal with her more severely?” the woman asked, gesturing with the brush back to Sarah’s soles. Sarah shook her head wildly as Cleo, grasping at a lifeline, shouted. “Yes! It was her idea!”, she cried, the bitter taste of guilt swept away by the overwhelming tide of fear, tears in her eyes, her feet already tingling almost unbearably in anticipation.
“Cleo!” Sarah hissed, shocked and dismayed at her friend’s betrayal. “How could you!”
“Do we believe her?” the woman asked, working the crowd.
“No!” a couple of people in the crowd shouted back, a little hesitantly.
“Do we believe her?” the woman repeated.
“No!” the crowd roared more enthusiastically as Cleo tried to back away as far as she could in her stool, feet right back against the heavy wood of the stocks and legs straining as far as possible to get away from the judgement of the angry crowd.
“Do we need to punish her for lying?” the woman asked.
“Yes!” the crowd roared while Cleo shook her head silently.
“Do we need to punish her for betraying her friend?”
“Yes!!!” the crowd shouted.
“And, you, dearie,” the woman said to Sarah, “she led you astray, yes?”
“Yes” Sarah said quietly.
“And then tries to pin the blame on you!”
“Yes!” Sarah said a little louder, unable to keep her annoyance out of her voice.
“But you’ve already learnt your lesson, right?”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” she said nervously, not wanting to be the centre of attention any longer.
“If we let you out, will you help me show Cleo the error of her ways?”
“Yes!”, she said quickly. Sarah would have agreed to almost anything to be let out of those stocks, but as she shot a look at Cleo she found her annoyance boiling over. It was Cleo who got them enthusiastically stuck in these stocks, and Cleo who egged on the crowd. And then to be stabbed in the back like that! So, to her surprise, Sarah suddenly found she very much did want a chance to show Cleo the error of her ways. Cleo flinched back away from Sarah as a sudden, hungry look passed over her face.
“Now – Sarah, I didn’t mean it – Sarah…” Cleo stammered as Sarah’s manacles were unlocked. She rubbed her wrists while her toes were unlooped and the padlock removed from her side of the stocks. As the man hefted her side of the wooden bar, she snatched her ankles back as soon as she could possible squeeze them out. She was given a towel to quickly dry her feet, before jamming them back into her thick socks and rapidly lacing up her heavy walking boots, confidence returning somewhat as she again felt thick, protective boot soles between her and the world. Cleo could only watch with miserable longing as her desperately ticklish soles were still exposed and pointed at the crowd, now riled up and looking forward to her doom. Her long toes twitched in fear as she turned helpless, pleading eyes to Sarah.
Sarah was handed another stool and bounded round to the front of the stocks, now sitting in front of Cleo to the other side of the woman. She grinned widely as she was handed a little leather cuff on a string, and knew exactly what to do. Cleo flapped her feet wildly, shaking her head and mouthing “no” to Sarah, but in tandem, the two women slipped the cuffs over Cleo’s big toes and each pulled one back, like fishermen landing a flailing catch, tying them off and leaving Cleo’s long feet stretched and taut.
To her surprise, a spark of real thrill came to life in Sarah’s heart as she looked over at Cleo, pleading helplessly with her eyes. After being dragged along in Cleo’s wake for so long today, she found a sudden sweet excitement at the power she now held over her friend. Cleo saw the unexpected gleam in Sarah’s eyes and instinctively cringed away from it, further feeding Sarah’s rising thrill.
“Ready, dearie?” the woman asked Sarah, ignoring Cleo’s protests.
“Three”
“No...nonono… Sarah…”
“Two”
“Sarahsarahplease…”
“One”
“pleasepleasepleaseSarahNONONO!!”
Cleo’s voice leapt and a sudden wall of sound assaulted the crowd as both ladies started dancing their fingers on Cleo’s feet. There was no gradual build up, no need to apply technique or find weaknesses on someone as desperately ticklish as Cleo, and her nerves, so wound and frayed over the course of the performance heightened her senses to explode like the snapping of an overstetched rope. Her laughter was more animal howl than melodious tune, and the heavy stocks shook, even the stone uprights creaking slightly as Cleo strained to uproot them from the ground, the crowd silent and rapt at the extraordinary scene in front of them.
Sarah watched, entranced, studying Cleo’s face as her thrashing dislodged her hair from it’s neat ponytail to fly in a wild cloud around her head. She was intoxicated by the incredible control that such a small thing as her idly flicking fingers on her friend’s soft soles gave her over the normally so confident Cleo.
The two women held Cleo suspended in that long, torturous, frozen moment as she sucked in two, three, four deep lungfuls of air to sustain her fight, before she quickly began to tire and slump in her stool, howling laughter trailing off as she struggled to get the air to sustain it.
Anne made a gesture and, reluctantly, Sarah stopped tickling her friend. Cleo took a moment or two to realise, feet still flexing backwards and forwards in the little room they had, hair sticking wildly to her face flushed red with exertion.
“And that,” the woman said, gesturing to the stunned crowd, “is what happened to the ringleaders! Are you both sorry?”
Cleo was almost too stunned to answer. “Wha?” she asked, panting heavily.
“I think that means she’s sorry! Now, let’s do a little collection to settle the bill-” she said, starting to pass a cap around the crowd, who started to rummage in their pockets for loose change. “Do you want to let her out now, dearie?”
Sarah looked at Cleo, slumped on the stool, then back at her exposed, bare feet, still twitching slightly. She remembered that desperate thrill of power she’d held over her friend, and to her surprise she wasn’t ready to give it up. A spark of an idea came to her, and, as she wrestled with her conscience, for once, her conscience lost.
“Um-” Sarah spoke up, hesitantly. “Er – she did say we should do our worst,” she said, a little more confidently. “And – er -” she smiled sweetly “- we haven’t used that scrubbing brush, like I got.”
These words, red hot, cut through Cleo’s thickly fatigued mind. She shot straight up in her seat again. “Sarah!” she hissed, shocked. “You wouldn’t!”
“And I do want to be sure she’s fully reformed,” Sarah added, mock-virtuously.
Anne hesitated a moment. This was further than she had planned to push Cleo, but as it was coming from her friend. The crowd seemed keen, and after such a successful show she didn’t want to end on a down note by denying them their entertainment.
“Go right ahead, sweetie,” she said, as Sarah dunked the brush in the bucket with enthusiasm, loading it’s surface with soapy foam.
“Sarah! Sarahsarahsarah…” Cleo stammered.
“This was your idea, Cleo!” Sarah said, brightly. “Going to be awesome, you said!”
“Sarah…” Cleo pleaded, staring at the foamy brush as her friend brought it slowly closer to her feet.
“If anything happens, it’s on you, you said!”
“Sarah!” Cleo whined. “Please”
“It was my idea, you said!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!!!”
“Ready?”
“No” Cleo mouthed, wordlessly, but nothing could have stopped Sarah’s anger and frustration from descending on Cleo’s bound and helpless feet, brush scrubbing furiously top to bottom along her slender soles and deep arches, one, two, three strokes on one foot before jumping to the other and back again vengefully. The bench behind the stocks, heavy though it was, toppled underneath Cleo’s thrashing but Sarah didn’t pause as Cleo went sprawling backwards to writhe on the ground, ankles still held a little higher in the stocks and poor, sensitive, ticklish soles still staked out helplessly beneath Sarah’s determined, merciless scrubbing. It wasn’t until the cap had been around the crowd twice and Anne laid a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder that the trance broke and she looked beyond the brush, beyond Cleo’s feet and over the stocks to see Cleo lying on her back, exhausted, dusty, twitching and mewling slightly, with tears streaming down her face and hair matted beneath her.
She dashed around and scooped Cleo up into a big hug while Anne and Tom freed her feet from the stocks. “Are you OK?!” she asked, suddenly worried.
“Oh my god.” Cleo panted, exhausted. “What was that?”
“I’m sorry! I got carried away!” Sarah said.
“That was hell!”
“It was your idea! I hated the whole thing! You were loving it. You kinda deserved it.”
Cleo sat up slightly, shifting her weight onto Sarah. “Yeah. I kinda deserved it. I did push you into the whole thing. And did throw you under the bus at the end.” She looked down sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“I think we’re even now,” Sarah said with a grin.
“Good, because I’m never, ever, doing anything like that again.”
Why did Sarah feel a slight pang of regret at that, she wondered? She shoved the thought down quickly as Cleo pulled her socks and boots back on. The money from the crowd had raised enough to pay their bill and left them with a little extra, and as she helped the exhausted Cleo to climb slowly back up on to the moors she was certain of one thing. She’d never, ever go anywhere without cash again.
