Days of Revolution: Issue 3
Forum Home > Public : Stories > Days of Revolution: Issue 3In a world much like Earth’s 17th and 18th centuries, it is a time of political upheaval, of republican uprisings and monarchist restoration, of sham democracy and the dictatorship of the mob. These are the stories of those who fall foul of those mobs and the revolutionary spirit of denunciation that drives them.
Withertone Square, City of Avalorne, the Kingdom of Gradalbion, year 1900 PA
Captain Gregory Sattervos sat upon his horse, watching as the blade of the guillotine rose into position. The executioners had been testing the mechanism, raising the fatal instrument up, before releasing the clamps and letting the blade fall. Many among the nobles and gentry objected to making use of a revolutionary invention, stating that the traitors and rebels did not deserve a supposedly ‘equal’ death, and that the king should bring back the triad-gallows. Sattervos, however, approved of his Sainted Majesty’s foresight. By using the guillotine, the Kingdom was making a statement: as you have done to us, so shall we do unto you. And, to be fair, it was much more efficient than the summary shootings he himself had ordered during his scouring of the last revolutionary holdouts.
The square was filled with about two hundred people, slightly more than had attended the fortnightly hangings that took place before the revolution. The peasants, ever fickle, were crowding around the scaffold with the aim of witnessing the deaths of those who had taken up arms against the order of the world, as ordained by the Great Beasts, just as a year ago they had come here to watch as the lords and ladies of Gradalbion went under the blade one after another, their heads later mounted on spikes around the Parliament Hall. Sattervos was grateful that the king and the rest of the royal family had escaped across the border to Isrian. Who knew what it would have done to the royalist morale if His Sainted Majesty had been executed? As it was, the king had amassed an army of loyal followers, and led them against the rebels. Sattervos had been one of those waiting at the border for the king to cross, and had followed him all the way to the gates of Avalorne, where the populace had welcomed home their rightful monarch.
It was not the first time his family had battled the forces of rebellion and unrest. A little over two hundred years ago, his ancestor, the Marquis vei Satevmos, had fled his homeland of Ghastione. A loyal servant had impersonated him, taking his place in the tumbrel. Since that moment, the family of Sattervos, having assimilated into their new home, had been the enemies of so-called revolution in all its’ forms. And now, he would witness the deaths of those who had brought the turmoil of civil war and peasant uprising to his home. For, over the mumbling of the crowd, he heard the sound of an approaching cart. The first round of daily executions was about to begin.
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Anne Carbot struggled to remain upright as the small cart rattled over the cobbles. The cold of the late morning seeped through her smock, making the hairs stand up on her skin. Little more than a nightgown of thick white fabric, the smock just skirted the edge of decency. Like her hair, now roughly cropped to resemble that of a boy, it was one more humiliation inflicted upon her by the royalists. Her part in the revolution had been small, keeping an eye open for royalist sympathisers and loaning out her fathers’ printing shop for the use of the Workers Committee. They had come to her often, producing posters and leaflets detailing the woes the kings’ mismanagement of the country had brought. Reminders of why they must fight. The moment the royalists entered the city, she had been seized by her neighbours and dragged to the nearest prison.
Those accompanying her in the cart were just as unfortunate. John Bastus had done little more than gather evidence of royalist plots and assist the Revolutionary Guard, yet here he was in shirt and breeches, being taken to the guillotine alongside her. Young Mary Hullton had been a maid to Sebasian Rochton, the leader of the Workers Committee, and for that alone would lose her head. And then, there was Mrs Privit and her two daughters. The youngest was crying and wailing, begging to be released. All three were dressed the same as Anne, thick smocks and cropped hair. Former maidservant Mary was wearing a cap, though her blouse had been taken away, leaving her upper body covered only by her chemise. Anne felt close to weeping. While that tyrant the King has marshalled his forces, the Workers Committee had dithered and debated, showing far less competence in directing armies than the powdered, inbred noblemen they opposed. The only thing they had done well, in Anne’s opinion, was ensure the guillotine was supplied with fresh fodder.
The roaring of hundreds of people grew louder, and then the cart rolled into the square. There must have been hundreds of people crowding around the scaffold, where the posts of the guillotine towered above their heads. How could they just stand there and gossip, some even cheering at the sight of the cart? Couldn’t they understand that they were about to witness the deaths of those who had stood against tyranny? She and the others destined to die today were not the thinkers and supposed politicians who had run the Revolution into the ground, they were common people, like them! Where was the sympathy and grief that the crowd should be feeling at this moment?
As the cart drew closer to the scaffold, the cry was taken up. From the mouths of a hundred washerwomen, bakers, cobblers, and shopkeepers, the shouts came.
“Death to the traitors! Long live the king! Death to all rebels!”
This was obscene. The Revolution, which had promised lives free from the shackles of monarchy, could not end this way, its devotees butchered as the pampered aristocracy had been. Anne shook as the cart pulled up behind the scaffold.
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As the cart, with its cargo of prisoners, came to a stop, Captain Sattervos grinned in triumph. It was a sight most pleasing to the eyes, seeing the traitors brought to justice. He knew that another cart would soon be arriving, bearing yet more revolutionaries to the scaffold and their bloody deaths. As all such traitors deserved. The magistrate chosen for the duty to the front of the scaffold and held up his Roll of The Condemned. The crowd fell silent. The man cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Loyal subjects of His Sainted Majesty, witness now the deaths of those doomed by rebellion! These malcontents took up arms, in act and thought, against the Lawful Rule of the King, and thus pay the forfeit. Hear now their names and crimes!”
The crowd waited with bated breath. Three or four of the assembled guards approached the cart, dragging the prisoners out to stand at the foot of the scaffold steps.
As he waited for the ceremony to proceed, Captain Sattervos looked around the square. Many in the crowd were cheering enthusiastically, but that could be merely an attempt to prove their loyalty. They had all cheered just as vigorously when it was lords and ladies going under the blade. He could not help but think that the bloody device before him would be in use a year from now, as hidden foes and false loyalists attempted to reignite the revolution. The magistrate called out the first name.
“Mary Hullton, for rendering services unto the Enemies of The Crown, and aiding the would-be murderers of his Sainted Majesty.”
The nearest guard immediately seized a young woman in cap and dark skirt by the left arm, her modest bosom pressed against the breast of her chemise by the pinioning of her hands. She wailed and screamed, thrashing against the soldiers’ grip. Another seized her right arm, and together they forced her up the steps, where the two executioners waited. Satervos could still hear her pleas over the roar of the crowd.
“Mercy sir, mercy! I meant no treason, I swear!”
One of the executioners took hold of her arms as the struggling woman and her guards reached the top of the scaffold. As the soldiers returned to their post at the foot of the steps, the executioner dragged her to the upraised bascule. As the shrieks of terror gave way to quiet sobbing and whimpers, Captain Sattervos began taking his horse around to the front of the scaffold. While his previous position had given him a good view of the prisoners as they awaited royal justice, he could not see the blade. He reached a better position just as the lunette was closed on the traitorous maid. Sattervos could see her capped head bobbing up and down as she resumed thrashing futilely against the leather belts holding her down. He thought he could see her trying to say something, likely some last plea or a curse upon His Sainted Majesty, when the blade dropped and her head was catapulted into the basket in a spurt of crimson.
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Anne had looked away as the executioners bound Mary to the bascule, her eyes closed against the horror of the young woman’s frantic attempts to break free. There was a thud, the roar of the crowd and a scream from Mrs Privits’ youngest daughter, and she knew that Mary Hullton had paid the price for her revolutionary sympathies. A tremor ran through her body, as she turned to face the scaffold once more. The feet poking out from the end of the bascule still twitched, an executioner signalling for one of the guards to help move the body. The other was stooped low at the front of the hideous machine. Just as Anne realised what he was doing, the man rose with a bloody object dangling from his hand.
Wide eyed, she watched as the executioner slowly walked around the scaffold, brandishing the head of Mary Hullton. Nausea rose in her gullet, but Anne was unable to look away. The severed head dripped blood, the mouth hanging open. The executioners fingers reached under the cap, now speckled with blood, and Anne could see the hint of red hair as the cloth covering came loose. She barely managed to choke down vomit, as the other executioner and the assistant guard tossed the truncated body into a box waiting at the side of the scaffold, followed by the head. The blade of the guillotine rose back into position, smeared with the blood of poor Mary.
As the magistrate prepared to call out the next name on his list of death, she looked around, hoping that someone was repulsed by the sight before them. Anne was standing with the remaining four prisoners from her cart, each of whom had their eyes averted from the scaffold. It grated on her mind, that the people of Gradalbion could be so fickle. Had she and her comrades not battled against the forces of tyranny on their behalf? Her own father had been hanged in the opening days of the Revolution, as the Crown tried desperately to suppress the uprising, executing those who, like Annes’ father, published Revolutionary material. And now, here they were, each of them a sacrifice to the hunger of the mob, which despite all that they had done, could not be sated by the blood of nobles alone.
The sound of wheels on stone made her turn around. Coming towards them was another cart, this one too holding six prisoners. It looked to Anne like a family, husband and wife with three children, and another man. Katherine Privit, the eldest of the two sisters, broke off her mumbled prayers as she too saw the approaching cart. As it drew closer, Anne saw the face of the nearest man as he turned from comforting his wife.
No…
It couldn’t be…
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As the second cart approached, Gregory Sattervos could not help but grin. At long last, Luke Gavonte and his wretched family would pay the price for their insolent treachery. It had taken a long time to ensure his old enemy would face the justice he deserved, but it had been worth every second.
Destroying one of the leaders of the Revolution was merely an additional pleasure.
Withertone Square, City of Avalorne, the Kingdom of Gradalbion, year 1900 PA
Captain Gregory Sattervos sat upon his horse, watching as the blade of the guillotine rose into position. The executioners had been testing the mechanism, raising the fatal instrument up, before releasing the clamps and letting the blade fall. Many among the nobles and gentry objected to making use of a revolutionary invention, stating that the traitors and rebels did not deserve a supposedly ‘equal’ death, and that the king should bring back the triad-gallows. Sattervos, however, approved of his Sainted Majesty’s foresight. By using the guillotine, the Kingdom was making a statement: as you have done to us, so shall we do unto you. And, to be fair, it was much more efficient than the summary shootings he himself had ordered during his scouring of the last revolutionary holdouts.
The square was filled with about two hundred people, slightly more than had attended the fortnightly hangings that took place before the revolution. The peasants, ever fickle, were crowding around the scaffold with the aim of witnessing the deaths of those who had taken up arms against the order of the world, as ordained by the Great Beasts, just as a year ago they had come here to watch as the lords and ladies of Gradalbion went under the blade one after another, their heads later mounted on spikes around the Parliament Hall. Sattervos was grateful that the king and the rest of the royal family had escaped across the border to Isrian. Who knew what it would have done to the royalist morale if His Sainted Majesty had been executed? As it was, the king had amassed an army of loyal followers, and led them against the rebels. Sattervos had been one of those waiting at the border for the king to cross, and had followed him all the way to the gates of Avalorne, where the populace had welcomed home their rightful monarch.
It was not the first time his family had battled the forces of rebellion and unrest. A little over two hundred years ago, his ancestor, the Marquis vei Satevmos, had fled his homeland of Ghastione. A loyal servant had impersonated him, taking his place in the tumbrel. Since that moment, the family of Sattervos, having assimilated into their new home, had been the enemies of so-called revolution in all its’ forms. And now, he would witness the deaths of those who had brought the turmoil of civil war and peasant uprising to his home. For, over the mumbling of the crowd, he heard the sound of an approaching cart. The first round of daily executions was about to begin.
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Anne Carbot struggled to remain upright as the small cart rattled over the cobbles. The cold of the late morning seeped through her smock, making the hairs stand up on her skin. Little more than a nightgown of thick white fabric, the smock just skirted the edge of decency. Like her hair, now roughly cropped to resemble that of a boy, it was one more humiliation inflicted upon her by the royalists. Her part in the revolution had been small, keeping an eye open for royalist sympathisers and loaning out her fathers’ printing shop for the use of the Workers Committee. They had come to her often, producing posters and leaflets detailing the woes the kings’ mismanagement of the country had brought. Reminders of why they must fight. The moment the royalists entered the city, she had been seized by her neighbours and dragged to the nearest prison.
Those accompanying her in the cart were just as unfortunate. John Bastus had done little more than gather evidence of royalist plots and assist the Revolutionary Guard, yet here he was in shirt and breeches, being taken to the guillotine alongside her. Young Mary Hullton had been a maid to Sebasian Rochton, the leader of the Workers Committee, and for that alone would lose her head. And then, there was Mrs Privit and her two daughters. The youngest was crying and wailing, begging to be released. All three were dressed the same as Anne, thick smocks and cropped hair. Former maidservant Mary was wearing a cap, though her blouse had been taken away, leaving her upper body covered only by her chemise. Anne felt close to weeping. While that tyrant the King has marshalled his forces, the Workers Committee had dithered and debated, showing far less competence in directing armies than the powdered, inbred noblemen they opposed. The only thing they had done well, in Anne’s opinion, was ensure the guillotine was supplied with fresh fodder.
The roaring of hundreds of people grew louder, and then the cart rolled into the square. There must have been hundreds of people crowding around the scaffold, where the posts of the guillotine towered above their heads. How could they just stand there and gossip, some even cheering at the sight of the cart? Couldn’t they understand that they were about to witness the deaths of those who had stood against tyranny? She and the others destined to die today were not the thinkers and supposed politicians who had run the Revolution into the ground, they were common people, like them! Where was the sympathy and grief that the crowd should be feeling at this moment?
As the cart drew closer to the scaffold, the cry was taken up. From the mouths of a hundred washerwomen, bakers, cobblers, and shopkeepers, the shouts came.
“Death to the traitors! Long live the king! Death to all rebels!”
This was obscene. The Revolution, which had promised lives free from the shackles of monarchy, could not end this way, its devotees butchered as the pampered aristocracy had been. Anne shook as the cart pulled up behind the scaffold.
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As the cart, with its cargo of prisoners, came to a stop, Captain Sattervos grinned in triumph. It was a sight most pleasing to the eyes, seeing the traitors brought to justice. He knew that another cart would soon be arriving, bearing yet more revolutionaries to the scaffold and their bloody deaths. As all such traitors deserved. The magistrate chosen for the duty to the front of the scaffold and held up his Roll of The Condemned. The crowd fell silent. The man cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Loyal subjects of His Sainted Majesty, witness now the deaths of those doomed by rebellion! These malcontents took up arms, in act and thought, against the Lawful Rule of the King, and thus pay the forfeit. Hear now their names and crimes!”
The crowd waited with bated breath. Three or four of the assembled guards approached the cart, dragging the prisoners out to stand at the foot of the scaffold steps.
As he waited for the ceremony to proceed, Captain Sattervos looked around the square. Many in the crowd were cheering enthusiastically, but that could be merely an attempt to prove their loyalty. They had all cheered just as vigorously when it was lords and ladies going under the blade. He could not help but think that the bloody device before him would be in use a year from now, as hidden foes and false loyalists attempted to reignite the revolution. The magistrate called out the first name.
“Mary Hullton, for rendering services unto the Enemies of The Crown, and aiding the would-be murderers of his Sainted Majesty.”
The nearest guard immediately seized a young woman in cap and dark skirt by the left arm, her modest bosom pressed against the breast of her chemise by the pinioning of her hands. She wailed and screamed, thrashing against the soldiers’ grip. Another seized her right arm, and together they forced her up the steps, where the two executioners waited. Satervos could still hear her pleas over the roar of the crowd.
“Mercy sir, mercy! I meant no treason, I swear!”
One of the executioners took hold of her arms as the struggling woman and her guards reached the top of the scaffold. As the soldiers returned to their post at the foot of the steps, the executioner dragged her to the upraised bascule. As the shrieks of terror gave way to quiet sobbing and whimpers, Captain Sattervos began taking his horse around to the front of the scaffold. While his previous position had given him a good view of the prisoners as they awaited royal justice, he could not see the blade. He reached a better position just as the lunette was closed on the traitorous maid. Sattervos could see her capped head bobbing up and down as she resumed thrashing futilely against the leather belts holding her down. He thought he could see her trying to say something, likely some last plea or a curse upon His Sainted Majesty, when the blade dropped and her head was catapulted into the basket in a spurt of crimson.
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Anne had looked away as the executioners bound Mary to the bascule, her eyes closed against the horror of the young woman’s frantic attempts to break free. There was a thud, the roar of the crowd and a scream from Mrs Privits’ youngest daughter, and she knew that Mary Hullton had paid the price for her revolutionary sympathies. A tremor ran through her body, as she turned to face the scaffold once more. The feet poking out from the end of the bascule still twitched, an executioner signalling for one of the guards to help move the body. The other was stooped low at the front of the hideous machine. Just as Anne realised what he was doing, the man rose with a bloody object dangling from his hand.
Wide eyed, she watched as the executioner slowly walked around the scaffold, brandishing the head of Mary Hullton. Nausea rose in her gullet, but Anne was unable to look away. The severed head dripped blood, the mouth hanging open. The executioners fingers reached under the cap, now speckled with blood, and Anne could see the hint of red hair as the cloth covering came loose. She barely managed to choke down vomit, as the other executioner and the assistant guard tossed the truncated body into a box waiting at the side of the scaffold, followed by the head. The blade of the guillotine rose back into position, smeared with the blood of poor Mary.
As the magistrate prepared to call out the next name on his list of death, she looked around, hoping that someone was repulsed by the sight before them. Anne was standing with the remaining four prisoners from her cart, each of whom had their eyes averted from the scaffold. It grated on her mind, that the people of Gradalbion could be so fickle. Had she and her comrades not battled against the forces of tyranny on their behalf? Her own father had been hanged in the opening days of the Revolution, as the Crown tried desperately to suppress the uprising, executing those who, like Annes’ father, published Revolutionary material. And now, here they were, each of them a sacrifice to the hunger of the mob, which despite all that they had done, could not be sated by the blood of nobles alone.
The sound of wheels on stone made her turn around. Coming towards them was another cart, this one too holding six prisoners. It looked to Anne like a family, husband and wife with three children, and another man. Katherine Privit, the eldest of the two sisters, broke off her mumbled prayers as she too saw the approaching cart. As it drew closer, Anne saw the face of the nearest man as he turned from comforting his wife.
No…
It couldn’t be…
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As the second cart approached, Gregory Sattervos could not help but grin. At long last, Luke Gavonte and his wretched family would pay the price for their insolent treachery. It had taken a long time to ensure his old enemy would face the justice he deserved, but it had been worth every second.
Destroying one of the leaders of the Revolution was merely an additional pleasure.
Part 2
Anne felt her mouth drop open when she saw the approaching cart. It strained credulity, but there, standing beside his wife Bertha was Luke Gavonte, one of the key figures of the revolution. As a skilled orator and passionate speaker on a number of subjects, Mr Gavonte had been key to igniting the spark of rebellion within Avalorne. It had been his speech to the shop keepers and dock workers of the riverside quarter that had sent five hundred men and women to storm the royal palace. This had failed, but the outrage at the dozens butchered by sabre and cannon had led to a force of five thousand breaking down the gates the next week. This had, of course, been helped by more speeches from Mr Gavonte and the other leaders of what later became the Workers Committee. There were many who said that he could have assumed leadership of the Committee, rather than receding into the background after the first few hectic months.
For her part, Anne understood why Mr Gavonte had done so. For all his fiery rhetoric, he was not suited to the needs of government, managing the day-to-day affairs of their new won nation. Instead, he had been sent to stir up revolutionary fervour in the other cities and keep the spirit of the Revolution alive. It was only a shame that those who had taken his place had also lacked the skill for maintaining the nation. And for refusing to allow the flame of liberty and justice to go out, it was clear to Anne that this truly great man would now suffer a terrible fate. She only hoped that she would die first, so that she would not have to witness such horror.
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As the smile remained fixed upon his lips, Captain Sattervos gazed at the execution cart with a feeling of immense satisfaction. He had first met Luke Gavonte as a young man, when they had both attempted to court Miss Emelia Reddincote. To Gregorys’ eternal outrage, rather than choose the actual gentleman of the two, Miss Emelia had preferred Gavonte, her young head turned by the wastrels’ talk of revolution and making radical changes to the country. To make matters worse, Gavonte had proceeded to ruin the naïve young woman and take up with the harlot he eventually married, another radical by the name of Mary Blinkes. It was well known that Gavonte had been tupping her while seemingly courting Miss Emelia. Any attempt Gregory had made to hold the degenerate to account had been thwarted by the circle of revolutionary rabble-rousers Gavonte surrounded himself with. They’d had numerous clashes since then, but the opportunity had never come to strike the bastard down.
And then the revolution sparked into being, and Captain Sattervos had been forced to flee as Gavontes’ supporters went from a dozen or so drunken radicals to a mob of enraged peasants numbering in the tens of thousands, to say nothing of the wider revolutionary cause. His nemesis had apparently earned a reputation as a beacon of revolutionary justice for his part in the two riots that struck the palace, but Sattervos knew differently. A peripheral member of Gavontes’ circle had actually deserted just as the revolution began, supplying the Royalist cause with information and spying for them in exchange for a pardon, something that even Gregory agreed was well deserved. It was he who had told Gregory the truth. The first speech Gavonte had made, encouraging the people of the riverside to storm the palace, had never been intended to bring down the king. Rather, the purpose had been to cause a futile, unruly attack that would be put down without much of a fight and bring down a royalist reprisal, then use the outrage at the apparent injustice and ‘tyrannical vengeance’ to spark a more successful uprising. And it had been successful. The king and queen had managed to flee, but many courtiers had not been so lucky. The mob had broken down the gates, and swarmed into the palace. Eleven gentlemen and nine ladies had been hacked to death in the corridors, and about twenty of each had been hanged from windows and arches by the bloodthirsty mob before the revolutionary leaders had brought about a measure of order. The fifty or so survivors had been hauled off to the city prisons, where they languished for almost two weeks while the guillotine was erected in Withertone Square.
Those poor unfortunates had not been alone either. Gregory grimaced at the memories, having witnessed the events himself. Within four days of the palace being stormed, practically every gentleman in Avalorne and his wife had been seized and dragged to the nearest prison, where many did not leave save to mount the steps of the guillotine. He pushed the memory aside, watching as his hated enemy was dragged from the cart, the traitors’ wife and three children following. As this happened, another prisoner was hauled up the steps of the scaffold. The magistrate called out the mans’ name.
“John Bastus, for betraying the true servants of His Saintedd Majesty to the traitors and usurpers…”
Ah yes, he’d heard the name before. A spy for the rebels, denouncing any who did not support the traitors and their foul revolution. It was all Gregory could do to not cheer as the criminal was bound to the bascule and lowered under the blade. It dropped, and the crowd roared.
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Turning her eyes away as the blade fell on John Bastus, Anne looked over the remaining prisoners. Along with herself, Mrs Privit and her daughters, and of course Mr Gavontes’ family, there was another man by the name of Willus Trell, a banker who had loaned money to the Workers Committee for the purposes of equipping their militia with proper weapons. Anne felt a sudden surge of admiration for the man. Had he been a typical banker, he would have preserved his wealthy by fleeting the city, or aided both sides of the conflict. Instead, he had thrown his weight behind the Revolution, and now would pay the price for it. She heard the thud of the blade falling and Mrs Privits’ daughters flinched. There was another girl among the prisoners, the daughter of Mr Gavonte. Anne could see her near the back, standing with her mother, both clad in smocks and mop caps. Their fear and horror was clear, especially once the head of John Bastus was displayed. As the body was tossed into the waiting box, Anne approached the gathered family. She wished with all her heart to speak with Mr Gavonte at least once before the royalists murdered her.
“Mr Gavonte, I have long applauded…”
They were cut off by the shouting of the magistrate and accompanying wails.
“Jane Privit, for making uniforms for the rebels, and other such aid to His Sainted Majesty’s enemies.”
The guards took Mrs Privit by the arms and dragged her up the steps, as her daughters screamed and begged behind them. Anne heard one guard gleefully proclaim.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, you’re next for the chop!”
The bascule had now been brought to vertical, and the executioner strapped Mrs Privit to it in the blink of an eye. A moment later, the plank was flat against the frame and the latest victim of the counter-revolution was being shoved forward.
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The greying cropped hair of this latest traitor appeared through the lunette. Captain Sattervos grinned to himself as the upper half closed upon the struggling woman’s neck. Just like a commoner, unable to meet their death with the dignity of the nobility. The executioner reached up for the lever, as the condemned woman wailed and begged.
“No, please, no, not my daughters! I only did what the Committee asked, please…”
Her words were blocked out by the roar of the crowds, and Gregory found himself cheering along with them. It was undignified for a gentleman to get carried away like this, but he could not deny that the sight of this vile traitor receiving her just deserts was rather satisfying.
The executioner pulled the lever, and the blade dropped. The squirming woman gave one last pitiable wail before the angled metal cut through her neck and the grey circle of her head fell into the waiting basket. Yet more blood splashed the scaffold, and Gregory found himself wondering when the gore produced by the executions was to be clean off. The executioner reached into the basket, and withdrew the dripping head. Even from this distance, Gregory could see the eyes were wide open, the mouth gaping below. The head was displayed to the crowd, before being dumped into the large box that already held two truncated bodies. The bloody torso followed shortly after. The magistrate spoke once more, calling out the next name.
“Mary Privit, for treason, and abetting the Enemies of the Crown!”
The guards hauled the prisoner onto the scaffold, a sobbing wretch barely more than a girl. Gregory would have pitied her for her youth, if the revolutionaries had not done much the same thing to many more. Within two weeks of the kings’ flight from Avalorne, a dozen young ladies had mounted the steps of the guillotine, and nearly as many serving girls who had remained loyal to their employers. This revolutionary, young as she was, would receive no mercy. For the third time that day, the bascule pivoted, and another head of cropped hair was shoved through the lunette. Gregory could see her lips moving silently, likely praying that she would not be dammed for her crimes against His Sainted Majesty. A tug of the lever, and the blade fell. Blood gushed, and Gregory saw the young woman’s feet kick up as her head was catapulted into the basket. Once more, the executioner presented the severed head to the crowd, gripping it by the short hair. As the body was dumped into the box with the other corpses, Gregory smiled to himself. Thus perish all traitors.
A shouted declaration from the magistrate preceded the next revolutionary to die, one Katherine Privit. Her crimes included supporting the ringleaders of the Workers Committee, supplying their savage lackeys with uniforms, and giving false testimony in the ‘trial’ of Lady Marian Collidge. This wench was somewhat older than the prisoner before her, a sister most likely. She struggled fiercely against the guards, but to no avail. Gregory saw the straps be tightened across her back, before the bascule tipped forward and the girls’ sobbing face appeared through the lunette. For a moment, the traitor lay there, screaming defiance and curses upon His Sainted Majesty, then the blade fell. Gregory started to ride around to the other side of the scaffold, as the executioner lifted the head up to gaze out at the crowd with its’ blank, staring eyes. It was time for him to confront Luke Gavonte one last time, before the murderous rabble-rouser paid for his crimes.
Revenge was sweet.
Anne felt her mouth drop open when she saw the approaching cart. It strained credulity, but there, standing beside his wife Bertha was Luke Gavonte, one of the key figures of the revolution. As a skilled orator and passionate speaker on a number of subjects, Mr Gavonte had been key to igniting the spark of rebellion within Avalorne. It had been his speech to the shop keepers and dock workers of the riverside quarter that had sent five hundred men and women to storm the royal palace. This had failed, but the outrage at the dozens butchered by sabre and cannon had led to a force of five thousand breaking down the gates the next week. This had, of course, been helped by more speeches from Mr Gavonte and the other leaders of what later became the Workers Committee. There were many who said that he could have assumed leadership of the Committee, rather than receding into the background after the first few hectic months.
For her part, Anne understood why Mr Gavonte had done so. For all his fiery rhetoric, he was not suited to the needs of government, managing the day-to-day affairs of their new won nation. Instead, he had been sent to stir up revolutionary fervour in the other cities and keep the spirit of the Revolution alive. It was only a shame that those who had taken his place had also lacked the skill for maintaining the nation. And for refusing to allow the flame of liberty and justice to go out, it was clear to Anne that this truly great man would now suffer a terrible fate. She only hoped that she would die first, so that she would not have to witness such horror.
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As the smile remained fixed upon his lips, Captain Sattervos gazed at the execution cart with a feeling of immense satisfaction. He had first met Luke Gavonte as a young man, when they had both attempted to court Miss Emelia Reddincote. To Gregorys’ eternal outrage, rather than choose the actual gentleman of the two, Miss Emelia had preferred Gavonte, her young head turned by the wastrels’ talk of revolution and making radical changes to the country. To make matters worse, Gavonte had proceeded to ruin the naïve young woman and take up with the harlot he eventually married, another radical by the name of Mary Blinkes. It was well known that Gavonte had been tupping her while seemingly courting Miss Emelia. Any attempt Gregory had made to hold the degenerate to account had been thwarted by the circle of revolutionary rabble-rousers Gavonte surrounded himself with. They’d had numerous clashes since then, but the opportunity had never come to strike the bastard down.
And then the revolution sparked into being, and Captain Sattervos had been forced to flee as Gavontes’ supporters went from a dozen or so drunken radicals to a mob of enraged peasants numbering in the tens of thousands, to say nothing of the wider revolutionary cause. His nemesis had apparently earned a reputation as a beacon of revolutionary justice for his part in the two riots that struck the palace, but Sattervos knew differently. A peripheral member of Gavontes’ circle had actually deserted just as the revolution began, supplying the Royalist cause with information and spying for them in exchange for a pardon, something that even Gregory agreed was well deserved. It was he who had told Gregory the truth. The first speech Gavonte had made, encouraging the people of the riverside to storm the palace, had never been intended to bring down the king. Rather, the purpose had been to cause a futile, unruly attack that would be put down without much of a fight and bring down a royalist reprisal, then use the outrage at the apparent injustice and ‘tyrannical vengeance’ to spark a more successful uprising. And it had been successful. The king and queen had managed to flee, but many courtiers had not been so lucky. The mob had broken down the gates, and swarmed into the palace. Eleven gentlemen and nine ladies had been hacked to death in the corridors, and about twenty of each had been hanged from windows and arches by the bloodthirsty mob before the revolutionary leaders had brought about a measure of order. The fifty or so survivors had been hauled off to the city prisons, where they languished for almost two weeks while the guillotine was erected in Withertone Square.
Those poor unfortunates had not been alone either. Gregory grimaced at the memories, having witnessed the events himself. Within four days of the palace being stormed, practically every gentleman in Avalorne and his wife had been seized and dragged to the nearest prison, where many did not leave save to mount the steps of the guillotine. He pushed the memory aside, watching as his hated enemy was dragged from the cart, the traitors’ wife and three children following. As this happened, another prisoner was hauled up the steps of the scaffold. The magistrate called out the mans’ name.
“John Bastus, for betraying the true servants of His Saintedd Majesty to the traitors and usurpers…”
Ah yes, he’d heard the name before. A spy for the rebels, denouncing any who did not support the traitors and their foul revolution. It was all Gregory could do to not cheer as the criminal was bound to the bascule and lowered under the blade. It dropped, and the crowd roared.
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Turning her eyes away as the blade fell on John Bastus, Anne looked over the remaining prisoners. Along with herself, Mrs Privit and her daughters, and of course Mr Gavontes’ family, there was another man by the name of Willus Trell, a banker who had loaned money to the Workers Committee for the purposes of equipping their militia with proper weapons. Anne felt a sudden surge of admiration for the man. Had he been a typical banker, he would have preserved his wealthy by fleeting the city, or aided both sides of the conflict. Instead, he had thrown his weight behind the Revolution, and now would pay the price for it. She heard the thud of the blade falling and Mrs Privits’ daughters flinched. There was another girl among the prisoners, the daughter of Mr Gavonte. Anne could see her near the back, standing with her mother, both clad in smocks and mop caps. Their fear and horror was clear, especially once the head of John Bastus was displayed. As the body was tossed into the waiting box, Anne approached the gathered family. She wished with all her heart to speak with Mr Gavonte at least once before the royalists murdered her.
“Mr Gavonte, I have long applauded…”
They were cut off by the shouting of the magistrate and accompanying wails.
“Jane Privit, for making uniforms for the rebels, and other such aid to His Sainted Majesty’s enemies.”
The guards took Mrs Privit by the arms and dragged her up the steps, as her daughters screamed and begged behind them. Anne heard one guard gleefully proclaim.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, you’re next for the chop!”
The bascule had now been brought to vertical, and the executioner strapped Mrs Privit to it in the blink of an eye. A moment later, the plank was flat against the frame and the latest victim of the counter-revolution was being shoved forward.
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The greying cropped hair of this latest traitor appeared through the lunette. Captain Sattervos grinned to himself as the upper half closed upon the struggling woman’s neck. Just like a commoner, unable to meet their death with the dignity of the nobility. The executioner reached up for the lever, as the condemned woman wailed and begged.
“No, please, no, not my daughters! I only did what the Committee asked, please…”
Her words were blocked out by the roar of the crowds, and Gregory found himself cheering along with them. It was undignified for a gentleman to get carried away like this, but he could not deny that the sight of this vile traitor receiving her just deserts was rather satisfying.
The executioner pulled the lever, and the blade dropped. The squirming woman gave one last pitiable wail before the angled metal cut through her neck and the grey circle of her head fell into the waiting basket. Yet more blood splashed the scaffold, and Gregory found himself wondering when the gore produced by the executions was to be clean off. The executioner reached into the basket, and withdrew the dripping head. Even from this distance, Gregory could see the eyes were wide open, the mouth gaping below. The head was displayed to the crowd, before being dumped into the large box that already held two truncated bodies. The bloody torso followed shortly after. The magistrate spoke once more, calling out the next name.
“Mary Privit, for treason, and abetting the Enemies of the Crown!”
The guards hauled the prisoner onto the scaffold, a sobbing wretch barely more than a girl. Gregory would have pitied her for her youth, if the revolutionaries had not done much the same thing to many more. Within two weeks of the kings’ flight from Avalorne, a dozen young ladies had mounted the steps of the guillotine, and nearly as many serving girls who had remained loyal to their employers. This revolutionary, young as she was, would receive no mercy. For the third time that day, the bascule pivoted, and another head of cropped hair was shoved through the lunette. Gregory could see her lips moving silently, likely praying that she would not be dammed for her crimes against His Sainted Majesty. A tug of the lever, and the blade fell. Blood gushed, and Gregory saw the young woman’s feet kick up as her head was catapulted into the basket. Once more, the executioner presented the severed head to the crowd, gripping it by the short hair. As the body was dumped into the box with the other corpses, Gregory smiled to himself. Thus perish all traitors.
A shouted declaration from the magistrate preceded the next revolutionary to die, one Katherine Privit. Her crimes included supporting the ringleaders of the Workers Committee, supplying their savage lackeys with uniforms, and giving false testimony in the ‘trial’ of Lady Marian Collidge. This wench was somewhat older than the prisoner before her, a sister most likely. She struggled fiercely against the guards, but to no avail. Gregory saw the straps be tightened across her back, before the bascule tipped forward and the girls’ sobbing face appeared through the lunette. For a moment, the traitor lay there, screaming defiance and curses upon His Sainted Majesty, then the blade fell. Gregory started to ride around to the other side of the scaffold, as the executioner lifted the head up to gaze out at the crowd with its’ blank, staring eyes. It was time for him to confront Luke Gavonte one last time, before the murderous rabble-rouser paid for his crimes.
Revenge was sweet.
Been really enjoying this series. The use of the guillotine is always a treat.
I like the duel perspectives, and thought it was interesting how the tables have turned on the revolutionaries at this moment in history. It seems as if there’s a constant back and forth between the monarchists and revolutionaries (and the commoners don’t seem to mind who’s under the blade).
I like the duel perspectives, and thought it was interesting how the tables have turned on the revolutionaries at this moment in history. It seems as if there’s a constant back and forth between the monarchists and revolutionaries (and the commoners don’t seem to mind who’s under the blade).
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