Cold air tugged at his arms as Francis made his way down the small hill towards the barn. Gravel crunched beneath his boots and he could hear the squelch of mud, traces of the spring rain that had come and gone. In his haste, he had forgotten to grab his coat-not that it would matter. From the walkway, he saw the faint glimmer of light from a lantern on the barn door. In the distance, he could still hear the last of the guests laughing and saying their goodbyes. Placing his hand on a side door latch, he took one last look up at the manor, then turned to enter. The musky scent of hay and tackle filled his nose and he noticed the singular stall at the back of the barn where one lit lantern hung. A servant must have been sent ahead to light his path and the mark where he should go.
He stepped forward, removing his cravat and waistcoat- yanking his shirt over his head of dark curls. He tossed them on the floor in a scattered trail. The rebellious nature in him reveled in the irritation it would cause; yet in that same moment, he knew it would cause him more pain. Having removed his boots and flung them aside, each thudding against the cobblestone, he removed his breeches.
Spotting a saddle on a nearby rack across from the stall Francis smiled to himself walking over. Unsteadily, he gripped himself and took aim, releasing a stream of piss across the leather, before shaking himself and turning to open the stall door. For a moment, he observed the wooden pillory stock that had been built to hold his height and muscular build. It was only then that he gulped and felt the dread in the pit of stomach. The stiff crunch of hay beneath his feet marked the beginning of his trial. A tremble went through his lip as the stall door slid closed and the latch clicked.
Walking to the back of the stall, he knelt in a dark corner facing the wall. He winced as sharp points of hay dug into his knees as he placed his hands on his lap-waiting.
Several minutes went by as he sobered slowly in the drafty barn air. There was no clock for him to tell time. His body was the only reminder of the length at which he had been kneeling. The tightening in his muscles and the digging of hay further into his skin did little to ease his mind. His body tensed when he finally heard footsteps echoing through the barn. He heard the dissatisfied grunts, followed by pauses. He knew his clothing was being collected and when he finally heard the thump of his boots being dropped into the stall and the clothing hung over the door- his wait was over.
A deep sigh filled the stall silence, and he knew he was being watched. The stall door opened and he could feel the large shadow cast over himself. "Francis, turn around and face me."
With some difficulty, Francis turned slowly, grimacing against the raw skin on his knees. He did not look up. He could not. Within moments, he felt a firm hand grip his chin, yanking his face upwards. Cold steel eyes met his and the hand on his chin pressed harder as he tried to shake his head away.
"You were forbidden to drink more than a glass of sherry tonight, and you disobeyed me. Four strokes. I gave explicit instructions not to speak to Lady Haddington and yet again, you disobeyed me. She is a terrible gossip with a lot of power to displace you and I from society if she so chooses. This is not the first time I have explained this to you, but after this night I promise you, Francis, it will be the last." The last word was emphasized with a growl. "An additional eight strokes for reckless disobedience. Another three for the improper discarding of your clothing. Is there anything I missed, Francis?"
Trembling, Francis knew that if he did not speak now, he would return to this same predicament the next day.
"I-I took a piss on your saddle, Charles"
There was a pause as he felt the hand fall from his chin and another sigh.
"While you are in this stall, you refer to me as Sir. I see that even the basic of rules have been swept from your drunken mind. I have been too lenient with you, another three for foul disobedience. Eighteen is to be your full punishment."
Placing his hand within Francis's hair, Charles gripped tight, lifting the man to his feet and leading him to the stocks. He felt the panic ripple through Francis's exposed body as he jerked to move away from the frame that would close on his neck and wrists,holding him in place.
"Sir please, just a little less. I promise I won't drink as much ever again. I- I can behave. I will."
"You are not here Francis because of what you can do but because of what you did not do."
