Chapter 26 #2
It was a relief to find peace in the cell.
The trial had been a mere formality. It had come as no surprise that as Baron Shoreton’s daughter, Mortlock’s widow, and de Tourrard’s whore, I was declared a traitor thrice by association.
Standing between two liveried men-at-arms as the sentence was passed, I had only been vaguely aware of the king.
He sat in silence, seemingly bored by the whole charade.
I’d offered no defense. Traitors were treated harshly and a woman’s word counted for nothing.
The less I said, the sooner it would all be over.
My only companions were the vermin who visited the cells at night.
The squeals of the rats fighting kept me awake.
They fought over scraps of food; the mold-ridden bread my jailer threw into the cell each day, which I was too sick to eat.
Other, unseen visitors came in the dark.
At night, my whole body itched. Scratching my skin brought temporary respite, but each morning huge welts covered my body, pulsing an angry red, their perpetrators having disappeared by dawn, waiting in the cracks in the walls to crawl over my body when night fell once more.
My cell had a small window but it was too high for me to look out.
Sounds drifted in from outside, voices of the executioners readying themselves.
That morning I’d heard Guy crying, pleading for mercy.
The man who’d bullied and terrorized me had been reduced to a sniveling wreck, his pleas cut short with a thud, followed by cheering.
The next time I saw daylight it would be my turn to entertain the crowd. I was the only one left.
The door rattled open. Had my execution been brought forward? A man entered, wearing a hooded cloak and holding a candle. He nodded to someone at the door who closed it again. Then he placed the candle on the floor and removed his cloak to reveal a cleric’s robes.
“Father!” I cried.
I had asked for a priest to hear my confession but had not expected my last request to be honored.
“My child,” he said, his light voice indicating his youth. “I have come to give you absolution.”
I kneeled at his feet.
“Thank you Father,” I said, bowing my head. “I will find much solace in the confession of my sins.”
He placed a gentle hand on my head before uttering a prayer for my soul and the souls of the people of Shoreton.
“Father,” I whispered, “do you know what became of the servants at Shoreton—the villagers?”
“They have been found new homes, my child. The king was merciful.”
“Elspeth…”
“She is well, lady.” He said, before resuming his prayer, the soft Latin words giving me little comfort.
“I am ready to confess my sins,” I said.
He nodded and waited.
“I killed a man.”
He started a little before responding. “Who?”
“Wulfric de Tourrard,” I said. “I intended to take the poison myself, but he took it instead, and I could not stop him.”
“The lord will forgive…” he began, but I interrupted him.
“I seek no forgiveness,” I said, “for I am glad he is dead. I will confess my sin but to face God in truth I cannot tell you I regret his death.”
“Why, my child?”
“He killed the only man I have ever loved,” I whispered. “He tore out his heart and handed it to me on a platter. He made me whore myself by lying with him, and I was too weak to fight him, for I knew he would take me by force whether I resisted or not.”
The priest drew in a sharp breath. Doubtless one so young had not encountered such sin in a woman. Then he composed himself.
“Who was the man he killed?” he asked.
“His name was Sawford. A servant; the bastard son of a cooper,” I said.
Hysteria bubbled up inside me. I wanted to expel the sins from my body by relaying all the sordid details to the priest.
“I-I committed adultery with him, though at the time I thought I loved another man who was also not my husband. I hated my husband.”
“My child…”
“…and I hated my father. It gladdened my heart to see him killed. I care for no one, and I only look forward to joining my Maman in death. She was a whore and an adulteress as well, branded a sinner in this world yet she was the kindest person I have ever known and I loved her.”
“What of your son?” he asked.
My stomach tightened. “H-how do you know about my son?” I said, my voice breaking. “He is gone.”
“Is he?”
“Yes!” I cried. “Do not speak of him. He is—was—innocent.”
The priest remained silent.
“Please!” I begged, “Do not speak of my son.”
He nodded. “Of course, my lady. What passes here today will remain between you and me and him who loves you.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Why, the Almighty, of course.”
He whispered another prayer, then called out to the sentries, and left as swiftly as he came.
The next morning, they took me to the courtyard. A platform had been erected in the center. A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd as I was brought forward. The pyre on the platform told me that I would not share the manner of Guy’s execution. The best entertainment had been set for last.
Faces watched with eagerness as I was brought to the stake and my hands secured behind it.
Men chatted animatedly in small groups. Families stood together; husbands embracing their wives, children staring, wide-eyed in fascination at the subject of the lecture their parents would have given them about the evils of sinful behavior.
The king sat on another platform, his red hair shining in the sunlight.
In my position I faced him directly. The executioner offered a blindfold but I shook my head.
The crowd muttered at my reaction, but I had no wish to entertain them with cowardice, or a weak woman’s crying.
At the moment of death I wanted to look into the eyes of the man who had condemned me.
King Henry was my distant relation, the man Maman had supported.
This would be my final act of courage, the one thing I had the power to do.
I would face Death and welcome my departure from a world of cowards and voyeurs.
The executioner stood beside me, holding a burning torch aloft. The smell of the oil that doused the woodpile beneath my feet grew stronger, catching the back of my throat.
“Do you wish to say anything?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “I know that you are carrying out your duty as a loyal subject to the king. I pray that unlike many here, you have not brought your family to witness this.”
“Nay, lady,” he replied, “I would not bring my children here.”
“You are wise,” I said. “Be kind to them.”
My voice shook as fear began to choke me.
“Please, sir, administer your task quickly. My courage will desert me if you tarry.”
“God bless you,” he said, then he lowered the torch to the woodpile.
I held my head up, breathing in the smell of oil and smoke.
King Henry’s eyes were upon me, and I met his gaze.
The wood burst into flames, and I groaned at the intense heat burning my legs.
The crowd had been eerily silent but among the hungry snapping sound of the fire I heard a woman sobbing.
Another joined her and the sobs turned into a roar.
Smoke stung my eyes, and I closed them to blink away the tears.
The pain was agonizing. I gritted my teeth to suppress the scream threatening to burst from my chest. A hissing noise surrounded my ears.
Adulteress, murderess, there was no place in heaven for me.
The serpents of Hell were calling to me.
I could contain it no more. I opened my mouth, drawing in gulps of air that burned my lungs, and I let out one final scream for the man I would soon join in death—the man I loved.
“Vane!”