Foreword
It should almost go without saying that all the characters and situations following are entirely fictional and everyone is over the age of 18. All my other stories (check them out!) are posted under the BDSM category, which I consider my little corner here on Literotica, but the powers-that-be decided this one ought to go under Non-consent/Reluctance. I must confess, there are some very dark elements in this tale (even for me!) so be forewarned. But perhaps it will all work out at the end? -HS
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Part The First: The Meeting
Raul descended the stone steps leading down into the deepest part of the prison with typical resignation. It was a cold, dark, and dank place, utterly miserable, and it carried the aroma of fear and death. He'd visited here many times over the years as a part of his official position within the kingdom. Unlike prisons of a later era, in which the occupants were presumed to be in the process of being rehabilitated--a naive assumption at best--prisons in that day existed to house their inhabitants only until they were either found innocent and released, or found guilty and punished, either by torture--or worse, death!
The jailer, who led the way down the steps and who knew Raul well from their many years in service together, fished out the large ring of keys as they neared the bottom. Both of them carried lanterns, which provided small pools of light, but no hope. "Odd for a woman to be here." he commented, and Raul nodded. "It's almost always the men who act up and bring this kind of judgment upon themselves."
"Oh, there have been a few women who've met with me over the years," Raul replied, "but you're correct. It's rare, to be sure."
They approached a sturdy wooden door at the end of the hallway, and the jailer inserted a key in the large brass lock. "Nothing else to do for the present. I can wait out here for you. Just pound on the door when you're through."
"Thank you," Raul replied, and he walked through the open door, which the jailer closed behind him. His lantern fairly flooded the small space with light, and he saw the woman almost at once. She was half sitting, half reclining on the straw that covered the entire floor. He hung the lantern from a wrought iron hook attached to the wall. "Lady Constance," he began, his deep voice booming and reverberating against the bare stone walls, disrupting the silence. It was both a question and a statement. "You have been found guilty of treason against his majesty the king. You know what the sentence is for that. What say you?"
Lady Constance rose to her feet and dulcetly but assertively spoke up at once: "I am innocent, sir. I neither know who brought these charges forward nor the purpose behind them, but I am innocent. I have never, ever shown the slightest disloyalty to our sovereign."
Raul appraised the woman before him. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, fully mature and not unattractive. He was well used to hearing these protestations of innocence. They always said that, at least at first, but at the end, when there was no longer any chance of a pardon, and with eternal judgment facing them, they always confessed. And yet, Raul sensed an unusual determination in the lady's denial. Well, he thought, she would surely tell the truth at some point before the axe came down.
"You're to be beheaded tomorrow morning. For the sake of your own salvation, you ought to admit your crime."
In their time, it was thought that dying with unconfessed sin was a sure path to the eternal damnation of hell. So here was Raul, attempting to convince Lady Constance to tell the truth, both to insure her own place in heaven and to assure Raul that justice was being rightfully served by her execution.
But Lady Constance was steadfast: "I have no control over whether I am executed or not. That is in God's hands, but I tell you once again that I am innocent of these charges, and the Almighty well knows it."
"Very well, then," replied Raul. "As you wish. I'll see to it that you have a proper meal tonight. It will be your last. By your leave, my lady." And he pounded on the cell door. At once, the jailer let him out and refastened the lock.
"She claims she's innocent," he told the jailer as they both climbed the steps. Raul found her assertions unsettling. After all, if Raul was being tasked with executing someone, it certainly eased his conscience to know for certain of that person's guilt. Wrongly taking a life was about as damning as unconfessed sin.
"Don't they all say that, at least at first?" asked the jailer.
"Well, some do. But I'll get to the bottom of this. Listen, she gets her last meal tonight. I'll wrest the truth out of her then. You know what they say: In vino veritas. I'll bring food and wine. You can put fresh straw down in her cell and allow her to wash herself in preparation of the morrow. Once she's had enough wine, she'll talk! I must be going now." And Raul and the jailer parted ways with Raul heading toward a tavern for some mead.
He sat at a small table in the corner of the rustic tavern, sipping his mead and aimlessly picking at his food. For some strange reason, he just couldn't seem to get Lady Constance off his mind. He envisioned her neck stretched out on the chopping block, the axe falling and severing her head. Raul knew from firsthand experience that death was not instantaneous in a beheading, and the thought of her final sensation on earth being that of her head hitting the dirt was very troubling to him.
Suppose she's innocent, he asked himself. What then? It was confusing. Like everyone else in that time, Raul believed that kings reigned by divine right, which was to say that God Himself ordained those who ruled over both the common people and lesser nobles. It was unthinkable that God would allow His chosen monarch to mistakenly commit someone to a wrongful death. And yet Raul kept coming back to the nagging thought that somehow justice was being miscarried here. He thought and thought about it and finally decided to take some action which he hoped would clarify the matter. Raul downed the last dregs of his mead and left the tavern, making his way purposely to the castle. Once he'd been permitted entrance, he sought out the king's minister, either Martin or Oliver, whichever was on duty. It turned out that Martin had that responsibility today. "Martin, I need to speak to the king," Raul said, and Martin was more than a little surprised at the request.
"Raul, you're upset about something. What's wrong?"