They came, the men. Not all of them, but enough. Shadows slinking through the moonless nights, their knocks on her fragile door a prelude to terror. They saw not a grieving widow, but a woman without a man to protect her, a vulnerability to exploit. Their voices, low and cajoling at first, turned hard and demanding when she refused. What was a struggling woman to do against the combined weight of their bodies, against the desperate need to keep Lyra safe, even if it meant her own defilement?
In the tavern, the ale flowed freely, and with it, their boasts. "The widow Clara, eh? Not so chaste as she seems, lads." They laughed coarse, knowing laughs, inflating their false conquests, painting her as willing when every moment had been a violation of her soul. The whispers began, then the stares, then the open condemnation. "Whore." The word clung to her like the damp, clinging fog from the moor, seeping into her very bones.
And then, the evidence. Her belly, once flat with starvation, began to swell, a cruel testament to her unwilling servitude. A bastard. The final, undeniable stain upon her already ruined reputation. The village, self-righteous in its judgment, saw only depravity, not desperation, not force.
They planned the Ceffyl Pren. The news spread through the village like a fever, infecting every tongue with anticipation. Clara watched from her window, a numb dread coiling in her gut, as they constructed the ghastly effigy. Tattered blankets fashioned into a ragged hide, a hideous horse skull, carved with grotesque eyes and a gaping maw, balanced atop the crude frame. Two men, she heard, would hide within – ironic, she thought, a bitter gall in her throat, that some of the very men who had visited her cottage on other nights would now embody the beast of her public shaming.
The night arrived, cold and moonless, perfect for their cruel spectacle. A roar, primal and bloodthirsty, erupted from the village square, growing louder as the mob approached her cottage. Torches flared, casting dancing, demonic shadows on the walls. Lyra awoke with a choked sob, clinging to her mother's nightgown.
"Mama! What is it?" her small voice trembled.
Clara pressed her against her side, her heart thundering against her ribs. "Hush, my lamb. Just… just a noise."
But the noise was them. The door, old and splintered, groaned under the onslaught, then burst inwards with a sickening crack. Faces, contorted by righteous fury and alcohol-fueled glee, filled the doorway. They ignored Lyra's terrified screams as they seized Clara, dragging her from the safety of her home.
"Whore! Harlot! Look upon your shame!" Curses and mocking rhymes rained down upon her as they pulled her into the street. The biting night air struck her naked shoulders as her thin nightgown was torn from her, leaving her exposed, vulnerable.
On her knees, head bowed, she felt the rough hands of a woman, a neighbour she had once shared laughter with, grip her hair. The cold steel of the sheep shears bit into her scalp, tearing through her once long, brown locks. Each snip was a tear in her very soul, a severing of her last shred of dignity. Tufts of hair, thick and dark, fell to the muddy ground beside her, mingling with the spittle and curses of the mob.
Then, they hauled her up, no longer a woman, but a thing to be displayed. Lifted high, she straddled the back of the Ceffyl Pren, the rough material chafing painfully against her inner thighs. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, preventing her from shifting, from relieving the agonizing pressure and friction between her legs. She sagged, teetered precariously, high above the jeering, torchlit faces, a grotesque monument to their manufactured outrage.
The "horse" began to move, its hidden riders lumbering forward, carrying her through the winding lanes of the village. Her modesty was obliterated, her swelling belly, a shameful testament to her ordeal, horribly on display for every gaping eye. The cacophony of their jeers, their mocking rhymes, their triumphant cries, assaulted her ears.
"Look at her! The painted lady!"
"A new mouth to feed, eh, harlot?"
Pelted with all manner of filth, she felt the wet impact of rotten apples and vegetables against her skin, the stinging slap of a dead fish across her cheek. A clod of mud burst against her pregnant belly, leaving a dark, earthy stain. Manure, wet and pungent, splattered on her legs, dripping down onto the crude horse. Her eyes, open but unseeing, were fixed on some distant, unimaginable horizon beyond the baying mob.
Then, with a lurch, she was thrown. She landed hard, a grunt escaping her lips, her arms still bound, unable to break her fall or protect her precious cargo. She struggled in vain, a trapped, flailing creature, as more clods of mud and manure rained down, splattering on her hairless scalp, her face, her belly, burying her in the vile evidence of their contempt.
