Of Treason and Kings: Issue 1
Forum Home > Public : Stories > Of Treason and Kings: Issue 1It is a time of learning, it is a time of barbarism. The sword and musket share equal place with the book and pen. Even as ships sail past the horizon to seek new lands, the kings and queens of the Old World claw at each other and their own realms in a frenzy of secular greed and religious fervour. From these struggles, plots are hatched against even the highest of men, some even breaking out into open warfare. These are the accounts of what happens to those who loose in this chess game of death...
Ballemford Castle, the Kingdom of Emglanor, Ninth Month, Year of Ascension 1750.
Part 1
The morning light shone through the window, barely illuminating the darkness of the chamber. Lady Emily Pockingfen looked out at the bare trees, some dried orange leaves still clinging to the branches. It was appropriate, she thought, that she was to die on a day when the world seemed lifeless. She could hear her maid sobbing, the girls’ hands shaking as she finished securing the padded sleeve to Emily’s bodice. Both arms now enclosed in what were effectively long, hollow pillows, the maid went to a nearby table and picked up her mistress’s ruff. Emily took a deep breath, an unsteady smile on her lips. As her young maid lowered the ruff over her head, taking care not to disturb her mistress’s hair, and bound it to the bodice collar, Lady Emily considered the course of events that had led her to this fate.
It had never been Lady Pockingfens’ intention to commit treason. Her husband of a year and a half, Lord Edward Pockingfen, had begun speaking with various other gentlemen around the court about the current state of the kingdom. Of how Old King Herrik was an invalid and had lost his wits, with his current wife Queen Catherine ruling in his place. For a woman to hold power for a young prince was one thing, but King Herrik had no sons. Only a daughter, the Princess Marian. Thus, Emily’s husband and his friends had grown more and more discontented with the imminent future of the country. Drink had inflamed their ire, and thus the first words of a plot was hatched. Emily had tried to aid her husband, as any loyal wife should. She had suggested that meetings be held in country estates, and advised her husband on the location of weapons. She had also provided the names of court officials who, according to the gossip among the ladies, would be amenable to bribery. Purely in preparation for the inevitable disorder and turmoil that would engulf the kingdom when the king died and Princess Marian attempted to take the throne. It would seem, however that her husband’s associates had actually begun laying plans for an armed revolt to be carried out within two years. The intention was to offer the throne to some distant cousin of King Herrik who was a Duke in the Hausingilic Empire. Then, the plot was discovered.
Emily did not know what had happened. A traitor or false-friend within the circle of plotters, the investigation of King Herrik’s spies (Queen Catherines’ in truth), or perhaps her foolish husband had simply been careless. The Royal Guards and household armsmen from the Queens’ most loyal supporters had marched through the city streets and corridors of the Red Palace, arresting anyone known to be involved in the plot. Emily’s husband had not been the highest lord involved, an inner circle of two dukes and three marquises having taken charge, and at least one of them had escaped the city to raise the troops and begin their uprising earlier than expected. Lord Pockingfen had not managed to flee in time, and attempted to fall on his own sword when the Royal Guard came for him. He had botched it, and was conveyed to the Black Tower once his survival was assured. Emily had known nothing of this, being at their estate thirty miles away. The first she knew was when a troop of soldiers rode into the courtyard to take her into custody. Her maids had hurriedly packed some spare clothes, both for day-wear and formal occasions, and then they’d been bundled into a carriage that had taken Lady Emily to the nearby city of Hasaford. To call what followed a trial was laughable, a purely symbolic presentation of evidence to justify the death warrant that had already been signed by Queen Catherine. Emily had known of her husbands’ treason and had apparently advised him on it. From the moment of her arrival, it had taken less than an hour for a sentence of death to be passed.
Which led to Emily standing two weeks later in this small bedchamber, that for all its furniture and decoration was little more than a cell, in the infamous Ballemford Castle. While officially a royal residence half-way between the Red Palace in the south and the northern border of Emglanor, it had been nearly two hundred years since a monarch had last slept beneath its roof. Instead, the castle served as a place of imprisonment and… disposal for members of the nobility. An antechamber of death. Noblemen and ladies arrested at court or anywhere in the south, or indeed of sufficient rank and infamy, could expect to die within the Black Tower or on a scaffold erected just outside its walls, as indeed her husband had been. However, it served the Crown to have a place where minor traitors and nobles not present at court could be quietly disposed of. Emily and her husband had not been among the plots’ ringleaders, and there was no point in taking her to the capital for trial when the execution could be carried out at Ballemford. Thus, here she was, sharing a wing of the castle with the wives and daughters of several other plotters, awaiting the attentions of the headsman. More prisoners were expected, as the premature revolt was quashed and those lords and ladies not worth making a public example of were brought here to meet their fate. The executions had already been going on for several days.
Emily found herself grimacing at the memories, her hand moving to her throat as her maid finished attaching the ruff. The men’s wing had effectively been emptied over the last few days, save for a handful of young gallants who had ridden off to support the rebels, hoping to impress some lady or distinguish themselves before the men planning to lead the country. Instead, they had been seized by royalist forces and brought to Ballemford two days ago to stand trial. The next day, Viscountess Norburgh had gone to the block along with four other ladies of rank and their husbands. Emily recalled what she had heard in the hours after. Though only a few years older than Emily herself, it had taken three blows to remove the viscountess’ head. She could only hope that her own death was not so prolonged. And then there was the fate of her soul afterwards. Would she ascend to the Realm of Light, or would she be condemned to the agonies of the Burning Desolation for her part in the plot against her rightful sovereign?
Trying desperately to turn her mind from such maudlin thoughts, Emily considered her appearance in the small mirror standing in the corner of the chamber. Condemned she may be, but let it not be said that she had left this world like a commoner. For the final moments of her life, she had dressed in the most fashionable clothing she had at her disposal. Her black hair was arranged into the two buns currently favored by noblewomen, framing a twenty-two year old face that while not beautiful was certainly striking. A fine ruff encircled her neck, smaller versions at the ends of her padded sleeves. A rich blue bodice and floor-length skirt completed the image, the latter held a foot and a half away from her by the bumroll underneath. There were those who would see it as inappropriate to lose ones head while dressed for court, but Emily was thankful that her maids had packed such fine clothing.
She would meet her end as a lady, no matter what.
The knock on the door signaled that said end was fast approaching. There was the click of a lock being undone, and the Constable of Ballemford entered the chamber. Three guards in steel cuirass and helmets walked in behind him, swords sheathed at their waists. Lady Pockingfen turned to face them as her maid stepped backward into the corner. The Constable unrolled the document he held in his hand, reading aloud.
“Let it be known that today, on the seventh day of the ninth month of this, the one-thousandth seven-hundredth and fiftieth year of the Blessed Ascension, the Lady Emily Pockingfen, having been found guilty of dire malice unto the royal power and conspiring to unseat the lawful and ordained government of His Majesty King Herrik IX…”
Emily bit back a retort that it was Queen Catherine who truly ruled, and that Princess Marians’ coronation would spark a civil war. Instead, she kept her face still, preserving her composure as the Constable continued.
“…is thus to be taken to a place of execution, and there that her head be smote from her body, to thus be displayed unto the people as an example of justice. This sentence to be carried out henceforth, no clemency having been granted.”
The young maid gasped, her hand going to her mouth as tears formed in her eyes. Emily forced down her contempt. Silly girl, what was she crying about? It was not her who was to be hacked to death with an axe. Indeed, one of the benefits of having a master or mistress consigned to Ballemford was that the servant in question was thought too minor to charge with treason themselves. The households of the leading conspirators would be decimated by such accusations, those thought guilty joining their masters beneath the axe if they were lucky, and hanged if not.
She forced herself to speak, determined to die as befitted a lady of rank.
“I acknowledge my crimes against the Kings’ good majesty, and shall face the justice of his law without hesitation.”
The Constable nodded, gesturing for her to follow. Leaving the quietly sobbing maid behind her, Emily left the chamber as the three guards formed an escort around her. They passed through the paneled hallway lined with locked doors. Behind each was an apartment like the one Emily had just left, where a lady could await her appointment with the headsman. From behind one, Emily heard the sound of weeping. Ballemford was a relatively recent building, a compromise between a fortress and the large manors currently favored by the nobility. A high stone wall enclosing two wings of apartments, connected by a staircase and corridor to a large hall where a near-permanent scaffold had been erected. It was as they reached this staircase that Emily saw another lady being escorted from a nearby chamber by a pair of guards. About the same age, with light brown hair arranged in a single bun, with a small ruff and a green dress pushed out at the hips by the customary bumroll. The lady and her escort turned onto the stairs, giving Emily a view of her back. To Emilys’ shock, the lady’s hands were tied behind her back. She turned to the Constable.
“Are we all to go to the block thus pinioned, like common thieves?”
The Constable shook his head, tutting like an old woman.
“Of course not. Lady Ellswith refused to leave her apartment when told that she was to die today. It has proved necessary to restrain her.”
They reached the stairs and began to descend, following the previous party of guards. Lady Pockingfen could see that the prisoner preceding her, this Lady Ellswith, was shaking in fear, terrified at the prospect of what awaited them. There was something familiar about the name, what was it? As they turned to descend the final stretch to the ground floor, Emily remembered. Ellswith was the name of one of the noblemen who had escaped to start the short-lived rebellion, a minor lord barely above a rich merchant in stature. It would seem that his wife or daughter was to pay the price for his treason. She reached the ground floor with her surrounding guards, and there before her were the door to the hall where the sentence was to be carried out. Lady Ellswith was there, of course, her two guards still gripping her bound arms. There was also another prisoner, an older woman of perhaps fifty. Brown hair covered by a cap, with a medium ruff around her neck and a gown of dove grey and white. Emily would have thought her a merchant’s wife, but the bumroll under the skirts and the quality of the fabric showed that this was a lady of rank. The olive green partlet covering the chest also showed her status. This lady too had a pair of guards, and Emily could see the imperious glower she was directing at them. As the party approached the two prisoners, Emily saw the Constable step away to the side and face the stairs, as if waiting for more prisoners.
The older lady turned from what looked to be a half-hearted attempt to comfort Lady Ellswith, and approached. She bowed slightly to Emily.
“My apologies, I do not believe we have met. I am Marchioness Pullford.”
Emily curtsied to her social superior, her eyes widening. Marquis Pullford was once of the nobles responsible for the plot, and had in fact been among those captured before the ill-fated rebellion could be launched. She replied.
“Greetings my lady, I am Lady Pockingfen.”
The marchioness’s eyebrows raised. “The wife of Lord Herbert Pockingfen? He visited my husband at court and spoke highly of your advice. It is a shame that we meet under such circumstances.”
Emily mumbled her agreement, turning to look at the Constable who still stood to the side. The marchioness followed her gaze, nodding.
“It would seem we three are not the only prisoners whose necks are to be trimmed today.”
Emily looked at her, her face blanching in shock at the bluntness of the older woman’s words. Lady Pullford continued.
“I overheard the guards speaking of it during my evening prayers. There are six ladies who are to die this morning, and five upon the 14th hour.”
As she spoke, another party of guards descended the stairs. In their midst, three ladies walked with heads bowed. Two were younger than Emily, likely still unmarried. Both wore black, one with white sleeves, partlet and underskirt. She also wore a ruff that was open at the front, a style Emily understood to be gaining traction at court. A black cap enclosed her blonde hair. The other was dark haired, a wide ruff encircling her neck. She also seemed to be clutching her hands together, whispering prayers from her lips. The last was a woman in her thirties, in a dark blue gown. Red hair was piled atop her head, and Emily found herself somewhat amazed that so many ladies had thought to dress for their deaths as if attending court.
As these last three ladies reached the doors to the hall, with its waiting scaffold, Emily felt her heart beat rapidly in her chest. This was it. Her time had come, and all that awaited her and the rest of these women was the headsmans’ axe and a pike in the square of the nearest city. Lady Pullford flicked her eyes back to her, nodding to the two young ladies in black.
“It is a shame that young Lady Tallney and her cousin were mixed up in this. Poor girls, may their judge rot in the Desolation for his mercilessness.”
The Constable stirred, advancing to the front of the party. He knocked on the door, and it opened.
As one, the ladies marched forward to meet their fates, surrounded by the guards.
Ballemford Castle, the Kingdom of Emglanor, Ninth Month, Year of Ascension 1750.
Part 1
The morning light shone through the window, barely illuminating the darkness of the chamber. Lady Emily Pockingfen looked out at the bare trees, some dried orange leaves still clinging to the branches. It was appropriate, she thought, that she was to die on a day when the world seemed lifeless. She could hear her maid sobbing, the girls’ hands shaking as she finished securing the padded sleeve to Emily’s bodice. Both arms now enclosed in what were effectively long, hollow pillows, the maid went to a nearby table and picked up her mistress’s ruff. Emily took a deep breath, an unsteady smile on her lips. As her young maid lowered the ruff over her head, taking care not to disturb her mistress’s hair, and bound it to the bodice collar, Lady Emily considered the course of events that had led her to this fate.
It had never been Lady Pockingfens’ intention to commit treason. Her husband of a year and a half, Lord Edward Pockingfen, had begun speaking with various other gentlemen around the court about the current state of the kingdom. Of how Old King Herrik was an invalid and had lost his wits, with his current wife Queen Catherine ruling in his place. For a woman to hold power for a young prince was one thing, but King Herrik had no sons. Only a daughter, the Princess Marian. Thus, Emily’s husband and his friends had grown more and more discontented with the imminent future of the country. Drink had inflamed their ire, and thus the first words of a plot was hatched. Emily had tried to aid her husband, as any loyal wife should. She had suggested that meetings be held in country estates, and advised her husband on the location of weapons. She had also provided the names of court officials who, according to the gossip among the ladies, would be amenable to bribery. Purely in preparation for the inevitable disorder and turmoil that would engulf the kingdom when the king died and Princess Marian attempted to take the throne. It would seem, however that her husband’s associates had actually begun laying plans for an armed revolt to be carried out within two years. The intention was to offer the throne to some distant cousin of King Herrik who was a Duke in the Hausingilic Empire. Then, the plot was discovered.
Emily did not know what had happened. A traitor or false-friend within the circle of plotters, the investigation of King Herrik’s spies (Queen Catherines’ in truth), or perhaps her foolish husband had simply been careless. The Royal Guards and household armsmen from the Queens’ most loyal supporters had marched through the city streets and corridors of the Red Palace, arresting anyone known to be involved in the plot. Emily’s husband had not been the highest lord involved, an inner circle of two dukes and three marquises having taken charge, and at least one of them had escaped the city to raise the troops and begin their uprising earlier than expected. Lord Pockingfen had not managed to flee in time, and attempted to fall on his own sword when the Royal Guard came for him. He had botched it, and was conveyed to the Black Tower once his survival was assured. Emily had known nothing of this, being at their estate thirty miles away. The first she knew was when a troop of soldiers rode into the courtyard to take her into custody. Her maids had hurriedly packed some spare clothes, both for day-wear and formal occasions, and then they’d been bundled into a carriage that had taken Lady Emily to the nearby city of Hasaford. To call what followed a trial was laughable, a purely symbolic presentation of evidence to justify the death warrant that had already been signed by Queen Catherine. Emily had known of her husbands’ treason and had apparently advised him on it. From the moment of her arrival, it had taken less than an hour for a sentence of death to be passed.
Which led to Emily standing two weeks later in this small bedchamber, that for all its furniture and decoration was little more than a cell, in the infamous Ballemford Castle. While officially a royal residence half-way between the Red Palace in the south and the northern border of Emglanor, it had been nearly two hundred years since a monarch had last slept beneath its roof. Instead, the castle served as a place of imprisonment and… disposal for members of the nobility. An antechamber of death. Noblemen and ladies arrested at court or anywhere in the south, or indeed of sufficient rank and infamy, could expect to die within the Black Tower or on a scaffold erected just outside its walls, as indeed her husband had been. However, it served the Crown to have a place where minor traitors and nobles not present at court could be quietly disposed of. Emily and her husband had not been among the plots’ ringleaders, and there was no point in taking her to the capital for trial when the execution could be carried out at Ballemford. Thus, here she was, sharing a wing of the castle with the wives and daughters of several other plotters, awaiting the attentions of the headsman. More prisoners were expected, as the premature revolt was quashed and those lords and ladies not worth making a public example of were brought here to meet their fate. The executions had already been going on for several days.
Emily found herself grimacing at the memories, her hand moving to her throat as her maid finished attaching the ruff. The men’s wing had effectively been emptied over the last few days, save for a handful of young gallants who had ridden off to support the rebels, hoping to impress some lady or distinguish themselves before the men planning to lead the country. Instead, they had been seized by royalist forces and brought to Ballemford two days ago to stand trial. The next day, Viscountess Norburgh had gone to the block along with four other ladies of rank and their husbands. Emily recalled what she had heard in the hours after. Though only a few years older than Emily herself, it had taken three blows to remove the viscountess’ head. She could only hope that her own death was not so prolonged. And then there was the fate of her soul afterwards. Would she ascend to the Realm of Light, or would she be condemned to the agonies of the Burning Desolation for her part in the plot against her rightful sovereign?
Trying desperately to turn her mind from such maudlin thoughts, Emily considered her appearance in the small mirror standing in the corner of the chamber. Condemned she may be, but let it not be said that she had left this world like a commoner. For the final moments of her life, she had dressed in the most fashionable clothing she had at her disposal. Her black hair was arranged into the two buns currently favored by noblewomen, framing a twenty-two year old face that while not beautiful was certainly striking. A fine ruff encircled her neck, smaller versions at the ends of her padded sleeves. A rich blue bodice and floor-length skirt completed the image, the latter held a foot and a half away from her by the bumroll underneath. There were those who would see it as inappropriate to lose ones head while dressed for court, but Emily was thankful that her maids had packed such fine clothing.
She would meet her end as a lady, no matter what.
The knock on the door signaled that said end was fast approaching. There was the click of a lock being undone, and the Constable of Ballemford entered the chamber. Three guards in steel cuirass and helmets walked in behind him, swords sheathed at their waists. Lady Pockingfen turned to face them as her maid stepped backward into the corner. The Constable unrolled the document he held in his hand, reading aloud.
“Let it be known that today, on the seventh day of the ninth month of this, the one-thousandth seven-hundredth and fiftieth year of the Blessed Ascension, the Lady Emily Pockingfen, having been found guilty of dire malice unto the royal power and conspiring to unseat the lawful and ordained government of His Majesty King Herrik IX…”
Emily bit back a retort that it was Queen Catherine who truly ruled, and that Princess Marians’ coronation would spark a civil war. Instead, she kept her face still, preserving her composure as the Constable continued.
“…is thus to be taken to a place of execution, and there that her head be smote from her body, to thus be displayed unto the people as an example of justice. This sentence to be carried out henceforth, no clemency having been granted.”
The young maid gasped, her hand going to her mouth as tears formed in her eyes. Emily forced down her contempt. Silly girl, what was she crying about? It was not her who was to be hacked to death with an axe. Indeed, one of the benefits of having a master or mistress consigned to Ballemford was that the servant in question was thought too minor to charge with treason themselves. The households of the leading conspirators would be decimated by such accusations, those thought guilty joining their masters beneath the axe if they were lucky, and hanged if not.
She forced herself to speak, determined to die as befitted a lady of rank.
“I acknowledge my crimes against the Kings’ good majesty, and shall face the justice of his law without hesitation.”
The Constable nodded, gesturing for her to follow. Leaving the quietly sobbing maid behind her, Emily left the chamber as the three guards formed an escort around her. They passed through the paneled hallway lined with locked doors. Behind each was an apartment like the one Emily had just left, where a lady could await her appointment with the headsman. From behind one, Emily heard the sound of weeping. Ballemford was a relatively recent building, a compromise between a fortress and the large manors currently favored by the nobility. A high stone wall enclosing two wings of apartments, connected by a staircase and corridor to a large hall where a near-permanent scaffold had been erected. It was as they reached this staircase that Emily saw another lady being escorted from a nearby chamber by a pair of guards. About the same age, with light brown hair arranged in a single bun, with a small ruff and a green dress pushed out at the hips by the customary bumroll. The lady and her escort turned onto the stairs, giving Emily a view of her back. To Emilys’ shock, the lady’s hands were tied behind her back. She turned to the Constable.
“Are we all to go to the block thus pinioned, like common thieves?”
The Constable shook his head, tutting like an old woman.
“Of course not. Lady Ellswith refused to leave her apartment when told that she was to die today. It has proved necessary to restrain her.”
They reached the stairs and began to descend, following the previous party of guards. Lady Pockingfen could see that the prisoner preceding her, this Lady Ellswith, was shaking in fear, terrified at the prospect of what awaited them. There was something familiar about the name, what was it? As they turned to descend the final stretch to the ground floor, Emily remembered. Ellswith was the name of one of the noblemen who had escaped to start the short-lived rebellion, a minor lord barely above a rich merchant in stature. It would seem that his wife or daughter was to pay the price for his treason. She reached the ground floor with her surrounding guards, and there before her were the door to the hall where the sentence was to be carried out. Lady Ellswith was there, of course, her two guards still gripping her bound arms. There was also another prisoner, an older woman of perhaps fifty. Brown hair covered by a cap, with a medium ruff around her neck and a gown of dove grey and white. Emily would have thought her a merchant’s wife, but the bumroll under the skirts and the quality of the fabric showed that this was a lady of rank. The olive green partlet covering the chest also showed her status. This lady too had a pair of guards, and Emily could see the imperious glower she was directing at them. As the party approached the two prisoners, Emily saw the Constable step away to the side and face the stairs, as if waiting for more prisoners.
The older lady turned from what looked to be a half-hearted attempt to comfort Lady Ellswith, and approached. She bowed slightly to Emily.
“My apologies, I do not believe we have met. I am Marchioness Pullford.”
Emily curtsied to her social superior, her eyes widening. Marquis Pullford was once of the nobles responsible for the plot, and had in fact been among those captured before the ill-fated rebellion could be launched. She replied.
“Greetings my lady, I am Lady Pockingfen.”
The marchioness’s eyebrows raised. “The wife of Lord Herbert Pockingfen? He visited my husband at court and spoke highly of your advice. It is a shame that we meet under such circumstances.”
Emily mumbled her agreement, turning to look at the Constable who still stood to the side. The marchioness followed her gaze, nodding.
“It would seem we three are not the only prisoners whose necks are to be trimmed today.”
Emily looked at her, her face blanching in shock at the bluntness of the older woman’s words. Lady Pullford continued.
“I overheard the guards speaking of it during my evening prayers. There are six ladies who are to die this morning, and five upon the 14th hour.”
As she spoke, another party of guards descended the stairs. In their midst, three ladies walked with heads bowed. Two were younger than Emily, likely still unmarried. Both wore black, one with white sleeves, partlet and underskirt. She also wore a ruff that was open at the front, a style Emily understood to be gaining traction at court. A black cap enclosed her blonde hair. The other was dark haired, a wide ruff encircling her neck. She also seemed to be clutching her hands together, whispering prayers from her lips. The last was a woman in her thirties, in a dark blue gown. Red hair was piled atop her head, and Emily found herself somewhat amazed that so many ladies had thought to dress for their deaths as if attending court.
As these last three ladies reached the doors to the hall, with its waiting scaffold, Emily felt her heart beat rapidly in her chest. This was it. Her time had come, and all that awaited her and the rest of these women was the headsmans’ axe and a pike in the square of the nearest city. Lady Pullford flicked her eyes back to her, nodding to the two young ladies in black.
“It is a shame that young Lady Tallney and her cousin were mixed up in this. Poor girls, may their judge rot in the Desolation for his mercilessness.”
The Constable stirred, advancing to the front of the party. He knocked on the door, and it opened.
As one, the ladies marched forward to meet their fates, surrounded by the guards.
Hi guys, you are all no doubt waiting for the next instalment of Days of Revolution: Issue 3. Well, I am continuing with that, but I am also working on this story. Please remember to leave feedback.
Thank you. Excellent. Maybe add a little excitement for some of the condemned.
Part 2
As they entered the hall, Emily could only stare at the sight of the scaffold. It took up the centre of the space, standing about five feet high. The executioner stood off the side, clad in black with the great iron axe gripped in his hand. A low wooden box stood behind him, too small to be a coffin. Those were on the far left of the scaffold, six lined up in a row. But what truly drew Emily’s attention was the block. It was lower than she had expected, perhaps two feet tall. Even from this distance, she could see the divot into which the condemneds’ shoulders were placed. The sight finally brought home to her that this was it. She was going to die. There was no Royal Pardon on its way here, no last-minute rescue by brave gallants with shining blades and plate. Within the hour, that axe would fall upon her neck, and if she was lucky, it would only take a single blow to remove her head. Somewhere behind her, one of the younger ladies stifled a sob, as fear surged within Emily’s heart. She wrestled it into submission, a noblewoman should not lose her composure.
The reaction of Lady Ellswith was more obvious. Before Emily’s eyes, the noblewoman collapsed to her knees, shaking like a leaf. The Constable grimaced at the sight, quite clearly perturbed by a lady of rank trembling like a commoner before the gallows. Emily saw him direct a look at Lady Pullford. As a marchioness, it was her right to be executed first, both due to her rank itself, and the fact that being the first to die meant a sharper axe. Instead, the older lady gave a nod in Lady Ellswiths’ direction. Even in her barely restrained terror, Emily felt her eyebrows rise at the marchioness giving up her place in the order of executions. One of the guards helped Lady Ellswith to her feet, and the Constable took her by the arm. Forcing down her own fear, Emily watched as the noblewoman was led up the scaffold steps, another guard lifting her onto the platform. As she shuffled closer to the block, the lady’s shoulders were shaking visibly. It unnerved Emily, to see Lady Ellswith so clearly losing her composure. The bound hands made sense now, it ensured that she could not fight against her sentence.
As the other ladies looked on, Lady Ellswith knelt before the block. Emily thought she heard the noblewoman say something to the executioner, some request to ‘strike cleanly’ perhaps. Either way it did not matter much, as the guard pressed his hand against the small of her back. Emily watched as the trembling lady lowered her neck onto the block, her bound hands sticking out behind her. The executioner raised his axe. Emily tried to look away but could not. Beside her, she heard the older lady in the blue gown gasp and the woman wearing the open ruff let out a small sob. The axe fell, and a red mist splattered the scaffold. Lady Ellswiths’ body slumped straight down, her legs still locked in a kneeling position, leaving her posterior sticking up in the air. Emily felt her gorge rise, and the young lady in the wide ruff collapsed to her knees. On the scaffold, two of the guards were carrying the decapitated body to the left-hand side of the scaffold, where the six coffins waited. They placed the corpse within one after untying the hands, the executioner meanwhile stooping behind the block. As he rose back straight, Emily looked away, but not before seeing what was gripped in his hands. Lady Ellswiths’ eyes were closed, as was her mouth. The skin of the face was pale, while dark red blood dripped down onto the wood of the scaffold. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw the black-clad man approach the coffins and place the head in with its’ formerly attached body.
The remaining ladies did what they could to maintain their composure and avoid showing visible distress, though Emily was aware of preparations taking place on the scaffold. When she at last turned her gaze back that way, the blood had mostly been cleaned from the block, and the executioner stood with a clean axe in his hands. The Constable approached them once more.
“Lady Pullford, I am afraid it is time for you to meet your fate”
The older lady lifted her chin and nodded imperiously. Turning to face the scaffold, she marched forward, mounting the steps with the grace expected of her rank. Beside Emily, the young woman in the wide ruff let out a great shuddering sob. Reaching out, Emily took her hand. As much as she herself was afraid of what awaited her, it was clear the younger noblewoman required comfort.
As the woman turned to her, Emily did what she could to smile. Putting on a brave face might help the young lady find some measure of courage in the face of their impending deaths.
“Tell me, what is your name? How did you come to this place.”
The woman’s lips trembled, and she spoke quietly. On the scaffold, Lady Pullford was giving some final words.
“I-I am Lady Catherine Mosston, daughter of the Marquis Aglany. The other lady is my cousin, Elizabeth Tallney. We were both courted by gentlemen who were part of this plot they keep speaking of. I-I-I didn’t know what was in the notes Sir Gilling asked me to pass on, but the court didn’t believe me. Or my cousin. A-And now…”
The executioner raised his axe as Lady Pullford knelt down. Gripping the block as she laid her neck upon the grooved wood, the noblewomans’ comportment was perfect. Emily held her breath as the axe was lifted high. Then, Lady Pullford spread her arms wide, and the axe fell in a flash.
There was a sound of the blade thudding into flesh, and Emily saw the gowned body shudder. The hands twitched, and the executioner jerked the axe up with a squelch. It was then that Emily realised that Lady Pullfords’ head was still attached. As crimson stained the woman’s ruff and the hands shook, the axe fell once more. The body keeled over, slumping to the left. Lady Mosston let out a sob of horror, and Emily reached across to take hold of her hand. On the scaffold, the executioner had retrieved the head, placing it in the coffin where the guards had dumped the blood-stained corpse. As he did, Emily saw that the eyes were wide open, glassy and bulging. The stump was ragged, showing clearly that one that a single blow had been needed. The executioner dropped it into the coffin. From the corner of her eye, Emily could see the older lady in blue visibly on the verge of vomiting.
The Constable approached once more. He came to Lady Tallney, the cousin of Lady Mosston in the open ruff. He held out a hand.
“My lady, if you will follow me?”
Both Ladies Tallney and Mosston gasped and clutched at each other, sobbing in fear. On the scaffold, Emily clearly saw the executioner reach into the low box she had noticed before and pull out a new axe, with a polished, shining blade. Clearly, Lady Ellswiths’ death had shown the previous axe to be blunt. Lady Tallney at last gathered her courage, walked hesitantly to the steps of the scaffold. Lifting her skirts, the young woman began the climb up to meet her fate.
Holding Lady Mosston to her, doing what she could to keep the lady’s eyes off her cousin, Emily watched as, once more, the condemned noblewoman knelt before the block and reached out to grasp the sides. Her shoulders visibly trembling, Lady Tallney lowered herself down until all that could be seen was the semicircle of her ruff. The executioner tightened his grip on the axe, and slowly lifted it above his head, when Lady Tallney spread her arms wide. There was a pause as the axe reached the apex, and then it came crashing down. A crimson mist sprayed the block as the outstretched arms jerked up. The black gowned body collapsed, lying as flat at the bumroll would allow. Again, the guards moved to carry the corpse to the waiting coffin. But Emilys’ eyes remained locked on the block, waiting for the executioner to lift up the head. From how far away he had walked, Emily surmised that Lady Tallney’s head must have rolled several feet. Eventually, the executioner stooped and lifted it up. From what Emily could see, the black cap had been knocked askew, letting blonde hair free to catch some of the blood. The young woman’s eyes were screwed shut, her mouth hanging open. Blood continued to drip from the stump.
That sight was too much for Emily. She wobbled, her hands shaking. A scream was caught in her throat. In that moment she did not care about maintaining her composure, or meeting her death with noble bearing. She felt Lady Mosston faint away in her arms, and Emily could barely prevent herself from doing the same. It was as she looked up that the Constable approached for the fourth time.
As they entered the hall, Emily could only stare at the sight of the scaffold. It took up the centre of the space, standing about five feet high. The executioner stood off the side, clad in black with the great iron axe gripped in his hand. A low wooden box stood behind him, too small to be a coffin. Those were on the far left of the scaffold, six lined up in a row. But what truly drew Emily’s attention was the block. It was lower than she had expected, perhaps two feet tall. Even from this distance, she could see the divot into which the condemneds’ shoulders were placed. The sight finally brought home to her that this was it. She was going to die. There was no Royal Pardon on its way here, no last-minute rescue by brave gallants with shining blades and plate. Within the hour, that axe would fall upon her neck, and if she was lucky, it would only take a single blow to remove her head. Somewhere behind her, one of the younger ladies stifled a sob, as fear surged within Emily’s heart. She wrestled it into submission, a noblewoman should not lose her composure.
The reaction of Lady Ellswith was more obvious. Before Emily’s eyes, the noblewoman collapsed to her knees, shaking like a leaf. The Constable grimaced at the sight, quite clearly perturbed by a lady of rank trembling like a commoner before the gallows. Emily saw him direct a look at Lady Pullford. As a marchioness, it was her right to be executed first, both due to her rank itself, and the fact that being the first to die meant a sharper axe. Instead, the older lady gave a nod in Lady Ellswiths’ direction. Even in her barely restrained terror, Emily felt her eyebrows rise at the marchioness giving up her place in the order of executions. One of the guards helped Lady Ellswith to her feet, and the Constable took her by the arm. Forcing down her own fear, Emily watched as the noblewoman was led up the scaffold steps, another guard lifting her onto the platform. As she shuffled closer to the block, the lady’s shoulders were shaking visibly. It unnerved Emily, to see Lady Ellswith so clearly losing her composure. The bound hands made sense now, it ensured that she could not fight against her sentence.
As the other ladies looked on, Lady Ellswith knelt before the block. Emily thought she heard the noblewoman say something to the executioner, some request to ‘strike cleanly’ perhaps. Either way it did not matter much, as the guard pressed his hand against the small of her back. Emily watched as the trembling lady lowered her neck onto the block, her bound hands sticking out behind her. The executioner raised his axe. Emily tried to look away but could not. Beside her, she heard the older lady in the blue gown gasp and the woman wearing the open ruff let out a small sob. The axe fell, and a red mist splattered the scaffold. Lady Ellswiths’ body slumped straight down, her legs still locked in a kneeling position, leaving her posterior sticking up in the air. Emily felt her gorge rise, and the young lady in the wide ruff collapsed to her knees. On the scaffold, two of the guards were carrying the decapitated body to the left-hand side of the scaffold, where the six coffins waited. They placed the corpse within one after untying the hands, the executioner meanwhile stooping behind the block. As he rose back straight, Emily looked away, but not before seeing what was gripped in his hands. Lady Ellswiths’ eyes were closed, as was her mouth. The skin of the face was pale, while dark red blood dripped down onto the wood of the scaffold. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw the black-clad man approach the coffins and place the head in with its’ formerly attached body.
The remaining ladies did what they could to maintain their composure and avoid showing visible distress, though Emily was aware of preparations taking place on the scaffold. When she at last turned her gaze back that way, the blood had mostly been cleaned from the block, and the executioner stood with a clean axe in his hands. The Constable approached them once more.
“Lady Pullford, I am afraid it is time for you to meet your fate”
The older lady lifted her chin and nodded imperiously. Turning to face the scaffold, she marched forward, mounting the steps with the grace expected of her rank. Beside Emily, the young woman in the wide ruff let out a great shuddering sob. Reaching out, Emily took her hand. As much as she herself was afraid of what awaited her, it was clear the younger noblewoman required comfort.
As the woman turned to her, Emily did what she could to smile. Putting on a brave face might help the young lady find some measure of courage in the face of their impending deaths.
“Tell me, what is your name? How did you come to this place.”
The woman’s lips trembled, and she spoke quietly. On the scaffold, Lady Pullford was giving some final words.
“I-I am Lady Catherine Mosston, daughter of the Marquis Aglany. The other lady is my cousin, Elizabeth Tallney. We were both courted by gentlemen who were part of this plot they keep speaking of. I-I-I didn’t know what was in the notes Sir Gilling asked me to pass on, but the court didn’t believe me. Or my cousin. A-And now…”
The executioner raised his axe as Lady Pullford knelt down. Gripping the block as she laid her neck upon the grooved wood, the noblewomans’ comportment was perfect. Emily held her breath as the axe was lifted high. Then, Lady Pullford spread her arms wide, and the axe fell in a flash.
There was a sound of the blade thudding into flesh, and Emily saw the gowned body shudder. The hands twitched, and the executioner jerked the axe up with a squelch. It was then that Emily realised that Lady Pullfords’ head was still attached. As crimson stained the woman’s ruff and the hands shook, the axe fell once more. The body keeled over, slumping to the left. Lady Mosston let out a sob of horror, and Emily reached across to take hold of her hand. On the scaffold, the executioner had retrieved the head, placing it in the coffin where the guards had dumped the blood-stained corpse. As he did, Emily saw that the eyes were wide open, glassy and bulging. The stump was ragged, showing clearly that one that a single blow had been needed. The executioner dropped it into the coffin. From the corner of her eye, Emily could see the older lady in blue visibly on the verge of vomiting.
The Constable approached once more. He came to Lady Tallney, the cousin of Lady Mosston in the open ruff. He held out a hand.
“My lady, if you will follow me?”
Both Ladies Tallney and Mosston gasped and clutched at each other, sobbing in fear. On the scaffold, Emily clearly saw the executioner reach into the low box she had noticed before and pull out a new axe, with a polished, shining blade. Clearly, Lady Ellswiths’ death had shown the previous axe to be blunt. Lady Tallney at last gathered her courage, walked hesitantly to the steps of the scaffold. Lifting her skirts, the young woman began the climb up to meet her fate.
Holding Lady Mosston to her, doing what she could to keep the lady’s eyes off her cousin, Emily watched as, once more, the condemned noblewoman knelt before the block and reached out to grasp the sides. Her shoulders visibly trembling, Lady Tallney lowered herself down until all that could be seen was the semicircle of her ruff. The executioner tightened his grip on the axe, and slowly lifted it above his head, when Lady Tallney spread her arms wide. There was a pause as the axe reached the apex, and then it came crashing down. A crimson mist sprayed the block as the outstretched arms jerked up. The black gowned body collapsed, lying as flat at the bumroll would allow. Again, the guards moved to carry the corpse to the waiting coffin. But Emilys’ eyes remained locked on the block, waiting for the executioner to lift up the head. From how far away he had walked, Emily surmised that Lady Tallney’s head must have rolled several feet. Eventually, the executioner stooped and lifted it up. From what Emily could see, the black cap had been knocked askew, letting blonde hair free to catch some of the blood. The young woman’s eyes were screwed shut, her mouth hanging open. Blood continued to drip from the stump.
That sight was too much for Emily. She wobbled, her hands shaking. A scream was caught in her throat. In that moment she did not care about maintaining her composure, or meeting her death with noble bearing. She felt Lady Mosston faint away in her arms, and Emily could barely prevent herself from doing the same. It was as she looked up that the Constable approached for the fourth time.
Maybe make the ladies take off her shoes before or on the scaffold?
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And for one of the ladies, flowers from the executioner's assistant as a sign of secret love
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From Part 1: ".....she finished securing the padded sleeve to Emily’s bodice."
- but why, if the back and neck should be as bare as possible.
- but why, if the back and neck should be as bare as possible.
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yes perhaps have them wiggling their stockinged toes as they kneel down and have a female assistant blindfold them before assisting them to lay thee down placing their necks on the block I think this would instill a bit more fear with the ladies waiting knowing the final acts before they are led to the block.....you did ask for feed back lol
Part 3
Who would it be next? Lady Mosston? Emily herself? It was only a matter of time, she supposed. Her death had been inevitable from the moment she aided her husbands’ plans, but what else could she have done?
There came a noise from the doors to the hall. The Constable paused, turning to face the great doors, which opened to admit a handful of guards. They were escorting four young gentlemen in the puffed and padded britches currently fashionable at court though only one wore a matching doublet over his shirt. To Emily’s eyes, at least one of the noblemen was no older than twenty. The Constable approached, a surprised look on his face. Emily caught snatches of the conversation as he spoke with the apparent leader of the guards.
“…orders just came…Privy Seal. It would seem…immediately.”
“…outrage. There is an order to…we don’t even have coffins for…”
“…would not wish to…the Lord Chancellor and Queen Catherine that you did not…”
Soon after, the Constable turned around and approached the three remaining ladies.
As Emily turned her gaze to him, the Constable spoke awkwardly, as if unsure as to the truth of his own words.
“It would seem, my ladies, that the Lord Chancellor has ordered the immediate deaths of some of the foolish gentlemen who rode off to join the rebels. As a result, well, that is to say…”
Lady Mosston and the red-haired lady in the blue dress had their eyes averted. Only Emily kept her eyes on the Constable, as the older man continued.
“The headsman will be meeting out their sentences first. I apologise for, well, the delay in…”
Emily found her mouth moving of its own accord, words spilling out calmly and without inflection.
“We understand Constable. Do your duty, we will be ready regardless.”
The Constable nodded and signalled the guards to bring their prisoners forwards.
One by one, the four young noblemen were brought to the steps of the scaffold. A guard would take them by the arm and haul them onto the platform. The other ladies were staring at the scaffold now, like Emily unable to avert their eyes. The apparent youngest was first, struggling feebly against the guard. The axe rose, and then fell, the body collapsed spurting blood to be dragged to the side by the guards. Then the one still wearing a doublet, his arms spread out behind him as first one, then two blows struck his neck. Then a blonde-haired man with a small ruff around his throat, his body shuddering as the axe clove through his flesh. The last of the young men tried to give some defiant speech, but was forced to his knees by two of the guards. Emily noticed that unlike the ladies, the bodies of the young noblemen were pushed off the side of the scaffold, their heads tossed after them.
The brief diversion over, the original order of executions resumed.
The Constable approached Lady Mosston, holding out his hand to the trembling young woman. As unladylike as it was, Emily felt the urge to strike the man. He was telling this girl that she needed to mount the scaffold and hold still while her head was struck off. Did he honestly think that courtly manners would change that? Her hands still shaking, the black-gowned woman shuffled forward until she reached the steps up to the execution block. She hesitantly mounted them, her skirt held out and away from her shuffling feet by the bumroll underneath. Emily looked on as the young woman knelt and reached out to grip the sides of the block. Slowly, she lowered herself downwards to place her chin in the indentation intended for it.
The executioner began to raise his axe, and Emily felt her heat begin to beat faster. Once young Lady Mosston was parted from her head, there was only the lady in the dark blue gown to go, and then she would be the one climbing those steps. Oh, Hallowed and Blessed Ascended, how had it come to this? The young woman thrust her trembling hands behind her, and Emily turned away just as the axe fell. She heard the same squelching thud of a blade striking meat that she had been hearing all day, then the lower, softer thud of the headless body collapsing against the wood of the scaffold. She turned her gaze back to the grim scene. The wide ruff that encircled Lady Mosstons’ neck was practically dyed red, her black skirts trailing along the ground as the guards dragged the corpse to the waiting coffins. The executioner followed behind, holding Lady Mosstons’ head up by the hair. Emily could see the half-lidded vacant eyes staring out over a slack, hanging mouth. The head was dropped into the open coffin, and the executioner returned to retrieve his axe while the guards approached once more.
They placed themselves behind the red-haired lady in the blue gown, as the Constable spoke to her.
“Baroness Kesswick, it is now time to meet your end as a lady. Please, approach the block and…”
The lady, the stoic expression she had held this entire time cracking in an instant, took a step backwards. Holding her hands out, she practically shouted.
“No, I shall not! I am no traitor, those letters were forged! Princess Marian has no business on the throne, sullen hoyden that she is…!”
At that, the guards seized her by the arms and dragged her up the steps.
Try as she might, Emily could not look away from the scene before her. The noblewoman was struggling feebly as the guards bound her hands behind her back, protesting her imminent death. It was utterly disgraceful that a lady of rank should act so, when it was their duty as noblewomen to meet their deaths with dignity. The guards forced Baroness Kesswick to her knees, and as they pushed her down onto the block, the axe rose once more. The lady thrashed in vain against the guards as her head was pressed into the groove. The axe reached its zenith, and then fell in a great arc upon the Baroness’s neck. Emily heard again that meaty squelch as the metal bit into flesh. But no thud of head or body hitting wood.
The executioner jerked his axe up, and the sight of the guards still holding a twitching blue-gowned body up made Emily realised exactly what had happened. The axe had failed to cut all the way through, just as it had with Marchioness Pullford. The executioner struck again, and the body convulsed one last time. The guards let go of the body as it slouched forward, leaving the lady’s posterior pointing upwards. The executioner lifted up the head by its mass of red hair, and two guards lifted the corpse up by the shoulders. Emily watched as the remains of Baroness Kesswick were removed from the scaffold and the block wiped down, and then it was her turn. The Constable approached, his lips moving in the appropriate words, and Emily could not bear it any longer. She turned her gaze to him, evoking all the haughtiness her birth and rank had bestowed.
“There is no need, sir, I am perfectly able to find my own way.”
The Constable’s eyes widened, his mouth closed, and he withdrew.
Lady Emily Pockingfen strode forward with as much grace as she could muster, and mounted the scaffold. As she neared the block, she saw the contents of the wooden box that sat near the executioner’s feet. It held three axes, two of them already bloodstained. She dimly realised the sensibility of this. If an axe began to go blunt, as it had with Marchioness Pullford and Baroness Kesswick, the executioner could simply substitute it for one that remained sharp. At last, she came to the block. It had been cleaned before she began ascending the scaffold, but the wood was still stained with blood. And no amount of water could erase the deep gouges in the surface of the block. On the other side, a large red-brown stain lay at the foot of the block, with a handful of short trails leading out to smaller stains. Nausea rose in her throat as Emily realised that those stains were from the heads of those before her rolling away from the block. She forced it down, now was no time to lose her composure.
One of the guards placed his hand on the small of her back, clearly intending to force her to her knees. Emily stood firm, turning her gaze to the executioner. Through the eye holes in his mask, she noticed that he was younger than she expected. Emily cleared her throat.
“Strike well, sir, and make a good blow.”
At that, she knelt, her blue skirts spreading out around her. Hands trembling slightly, she reached out, and lowered her neck onto the block. The wet, bloody wood was cold against her throat, and she nearly recoiled. Gazing down at the reddish stain below her, Emily once again wondered how things had come to this. She was a lady of rank, and had simply taken the reasonable precautions any noble would have. Did she truly deserve death? At the sound of movement above her, she screwed her eyes shut. The time had come, the axe was raised and…
The blow came and Emily’s eyes shot open. Pain, oh, the pain! Spot flared in her vision as she dropped like a stone. There was red in her eyes, red falling around her, red splattering the wood that rushed up to meet… She hit the gournd and lay still. There was moisture on her cheek. There was the sound of something heavy falling.
Footsteps. All was going dim.
A hand on her hair, gripping. Movement, pressure.
Lifted up. Swaying slightly.
Moving again. A blue mass now beneath.
Her body, blood staining the ruff. Hands twitching.
Light and darkness and colours beyond understanding.
/
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/
Light. Bright, white light, searing through her eyelids. Emily opened her eyes, and sat up. She lay on a plain of sparkling jewelled sand. The sky above was a brilliant white, touched here and there by a hit of blue or amber. Around her, walls of reddish stone encircled the plain of sand she had seen before. There also seemed to be an incomplete building, the sort of castle one would have seen perhaps a hundred years ago.
Was she… in the Realm of Light? It certainly fit, but why was there a castle here, and why was she…
She was naked.
At once, Emily covered herself with her hands. This was terribly improper, what if there were people about? And there were. As she turned her head, she saw nine others standing or kneeling nearby. All were as bare as newborn babes. Five women, and four men. The other prisoners, the ones who had preceded her! Emily stood on shaking legs and walked over to see. As she drew closer, she realised that one of the women was Marchioness Pullford, but younger. Gone were the wrinkles and grey hairs, and in her place stood a woman of not unappealing features perhaps five years older than Emily. Their eyes met and she made to approach, hoping to talk to a familiar face, but was stopped. A young man of at most thirty, one of the gentlemen executed on short notice, stepped in front of her. He smiled.
“Oh divine one, allow me to worship at your feet.”
He knelt. Marchioness Pullford cocked and eyebrow at that, a wry smile on her face
It was at that point that Emily realised this man believed her to be one of the Blessed Ascended, perhaps even one of the Five Divines themselves. She took hold of his hands.
“I am no goddess, sir. I am, or was, Lady Emily Pockingfen. I met the axe after you did.”
The gentleman bowed, his state of undress making the gesture comical.
“I make no apologies, my lady, your beauty is as radiant as any divinity. I am Sir Herbert Mallbrone, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Emily was about to reply, when she heard a shout. The two young cousins, Lady Tallney and Lady Mosston, had climbed the walls, which looked to Emily to be red marble. The two women, their faces filled with the joyous, carefree expressions of young girls, smiled down at them. Lady Mosston cried out.
“Everyone, there is a great field beyond the walls! It looks as if the grass is made of emerald and the trees of crystal. And there are people beyond, men and women! They are rushing here!”
Behind her, Lady Tallney was waving her hands at the approaching crowd in greeting.
Sir Herbert turned to her, his hand outstretched.
“Well, shall we go and meet our neighbours? And then, perhaps, a promenade around our new accommodations?”
Emily looked down at the hand, hearing the offer behind his words. Briefly, she thought of her husband. But only briefly. Their union had been a political, convenient affair. And Sir Herbert’s eyes held honest, genuine attraction.
She took the hand.
Who would it be next? Lady Mosston? Emily herself? It was only a matter of time, she supposed. Her death had been inevitable from the moment she aided her husbands’ plans, but what else could she have done?
There came a noise from the doors to the hall. The Constable paused, turning to face the great doors, which opened to admit a handful of guards. They were escorting four young gentlemen in the puffed and padded britches currently fashionable at court though only one wore a matching doublet over his shirt. To Emily’s eyes, at least one of the noblemen was no older than twenty. The Constable approached, a surprised look on his face. Emily caught snatches of the conversation as he spoke with the apparent leader of the guards.
“…orders just came…Privy Seal. It would seem…immediately.”
“…outrage. There is an order to…we don’t even have coffins for…”
“…would not wish to…the Lord Chancellor and Queen Catherine that you did not…”
Soon after, the Constable turned around and approached the three remaining ladies.
As Emily turned her gaze to him, the Constable spoke awkwardly, as if unsure as to the truth of his own words.
“It would seem, my ladies, that the Lord Chancellor has ordered the immediate deaths of some of the foolish gentlemen who rode off to join the rebels. As a result, well, that is to say…”
Lady Mosston and the red-haired lady in the blue dress had their eyes averted. Only Emily kept her eyes on the Constable, as the older man continued.
“The headsman will be meeting out their sentences first. I apologise for, well, the delay in…”
Emily found her mouth moving of its own accord, words spilling out calmly and without inflection.
“We understand Constable. Do your duty, we will be ready regardless.”
The Constable nodded and signalled the guards to bring their prisoners forwards.
One by one, the four young noblemen were brought to the steps of the scaffold. A guard would take them by the arm and haul them onto the platform. The other ladies were staring at the scaffold now, like Emily unable to avert their eyes. The apparent youngest was first, struggling feebly against the guard. The axe rose, and then fell, the body collapsed spurting blood to be dragged to the side by the guards. Then the one still wearing a doublet, his arms spread out behind him as first one, then two blows struck his neck. Then a blonde-haired man with a small ruff around his throat, his body shuddering as the axe clove through his flesh. The last of the young men tried to give some defiant speech, but was forced to his knees by two of the guards. Emily noticed that unlike the ladies, the bodies of the young noblemen were pushed off the side of the scaffold, their heads tossed after them.
The brief diversion over, the original order of executions resumed.
The Constable approached Lady Mosston, holding out his hand to the trembling young woman. As unladylike as it was, Emily felt the urge to strike the man. He was telling this girl that she needed to mount the scaffold and hold still while her head was struck off. Did he honestly think that courtly manners would change that? Her hands still shaking, the black-gowned woman shuffled forward until she reached the steps up to the execution block. She hesitantly mounted them, her skirt held out and away from her shuffling feet by the bumroll underneath. Emily looked on as the young woman knelt and reached out to grip the sides of the block. Slowly, she lowered herself downwards to place her chin in the indentation intended for it.
The executioner began to raise his axe, and Emily felt her heat begin to beat faster. Once young Lady Mosston was parted from her head, there was only the lady in the dark blue gown to go, and then she would be the one climbing those steps. Oh, Hallowed and Blessed Ascended, how had it come to this? The young woman thrust her trembling hands behind her, and Emily turned away just as the axe fell. She heard the same squelching thud of a blade striking meat that she had been hearing all day, then the lower, softer thud of the headless body collapsing against the wood of the scaffold. She turned her gaze back to the grim scene. The wide ruff that encircled Lady Mosstons’ neck was practically dyed red, her black skirts trailing along the ground as the guards dragged the corpse to the waiting coffins. The executioner followed behind, holding Lady Mosstons’ head up by the hair. Emily could see the half-lidded vacant eyes staring out over a slack, hanging mouth. The head was dropped into the open coffin, and the executioner returned to retrieve his axe while the guards approached once more.
They placed themselves behind the red-haired lady in the blue gown, as the Constable spoke to her.
“Baroness Kesswick, it is now time to meet your end as a lady. Please, approach the block and…”
The lady, the stoic expression she had held this entire time cracking in an instant, took a step backwards. Holding her hands out, she practically shouted.
“No, I shall not! I am no traitor, those letters were forged! Princess Marian has no business on the throne, sullen hoyden that she is…!”
At that, the guards seized her by the arms and dragged her up the steps.
Try as she might, Emily could not look away from the scene before her. The noblewoman was struggling feebly as the guards bound her hands behind her back, protesting her imminent death. It was utterly disgraceful that a lady of rank should act so, when it was their duty as noblewomen to meet their deaths with dignity. The guards forced Baroness Kesswick to her knees, and as they pushed her down onto the block, the axe rose once more. The lady thrashed in vain against the guards as her head was pressed into the groove. The axe reached its zenith, and then fell in a great arc upon the Baroness’s neck. Emily heard again that meaty squelch as the metal bit into flesh. But no thud of head or body hitting wood.
The executioner jerked his axe up, and the sight of the guards still holding a twitching blue-gowned body up made Emily realised exactly what had happened. The axe had failed to cut all the way through, just as it had with Marchioness Pullford. The executioner struck again, and the body convulsed one last time. The guards let go of the body as it slouched forward, leaving the lady’s posterior pointing upwards. The executioner lifted up the head by its mass of red hair, and two guards lifted the corpse up by the shoulders. Emily watched as the remains of Baroness Kesswick were removed from the scaffold and the block wiped down, and then it was her turn. The Constable approached, his lips moving in the appropriate words, and Emily could not bear it any longer. She turned her gaze to him, evoking all the haughtiness her birth and rank had bestowed.
“There is no need, sir, I am perfectly able to find my own way.”
The Constable’s eyes widened, his mouth closed, and he withdrew.
Lady Emily Pockingfen strode forward with as much grace as she could muster, and mounted the scaffold. As she neared the block, she saw the contents of the wooden box that sat near the executioner’s feet. It held three axes, two of them already bloodstained. She dimly realised the sensibility of this. If an axe began to go blunt, as it had with Marchioness Pullford and Baroness Kesswick, the executioner could simply substitute it for one that remained sharp. At last, she came to the block. It had been cleaned before she began ascending the scaffold, but the wood was still stained with blood. And no amount of water could erase the deep gouges in the surface of the block. On the other side, a large red-brown stain lay at the foot of the block, with a handful of short trails leading out to smaller stains. Nausea rose in her throat as Emily realised that those stains were from the heads of those before her rolling away from the block. She forced it down, now was no time to lose her composure.
One of the guards placed his hand on the small of her back, clearly intending to force her to her knees. Emily stood firm, turning her gaze to the executioner. Through the eye holes in his mask, she noticed that he was younger than she expected. Emily cleared her throat.
“Strike well, sir, and make a good blow.”
At that, she knelt, her blue skirts spreading out around her. Hands trembling slightly, she reached out, and lowered her neck onto the block. The wet, bloody wood was cold against her throat, and she nearly recoiled. Gazing down at the reddish stain below her, Emily once again wondered how things had come to this. She was a lady of rank, and had simply taken the reasonable precautions any noble would have. Did she truly deserve death? At the sound of movement above her, she screwed her eyes shut. The time had come, the axe was raised and…
The blow came and Emily’s eyes shot open. Pain, oh, the pain! Spot flared in her vision as she dropped like a stone. There was red in her eyes, red falling around her, red splattering the wood that rushed up to meet… She hit the gournd and lay still. There was moisture on her cheek. There was the sound of something heavy falling.
Footsteps. All was going dim.
A hand on her hair, gripping. Movement, pressure.
Lifted up. Swaying slightly.
Moving again. A blue mass now beneath.
Her body, blood staining the ruff. Hands twitching.
Light and darkness and colours beyond understanding.
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Light. Bright, white light, searing through her eyelids. Emily opened her eyes, and sat up. She lay on a plain of sparkling jewelled sand. The sky above was a brilliant white, touched here and there by a hit of blue or amber. Around her, walls of reddish stone encircled the plain of sand she had seen before. There also seemed to be an incomplete building, the sort of castle one would have seen perhaps a hundred years ago.
Was she… in the Realm of Light? It certainly fit, but why was there a castle here, and why was she…
She was naked.
At once, Emily covered herself with her hands. This was terribly improper, what if there were people about? And there were. As she turned her head, she saw nine others standing or kneeling nearby. All were as bare as newborn babes. Five women, and four men. The other prisoners, the ones who had preceded her! Emily stood on shaking legs and walked over to see. As she drew closer, she realised that one of the women was Marchioness Pullford, but younger. Gone were the wrinkles and grey hairs, and in her place stood a woman of not unappealing features perhaps five years older than Emily. Their eyes met and she made to approach, hoping to talk to a familiar face, but was stopped. A young man of at most thirty, one of the gentlemen executed on short notice, stepped in front of her. He smiled.
“Oh divine one, allow me to worship at your feet.”
He knelt. Marchioness Pullford cocked and eyebrow at that, a wry smile on her face
It was at that point that Emily realised this man believed her to be one of the Blessed Ascended, perhaps even one of the Five Divines themselves. She took hold of his hands.
“I am no goddess, sir. I am, or was, Lady Emily Pockingfen. I met the axe after you did.”
The gentleman bowed, his state of undress making the gesture comical.
“I make no apologies, my lady, your beauty is as radiant as any divinity. I am Sir Herbert Mallbrone, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Emily was about to reply, when she heard a shout. The two young cousins, Lady Tallney and Lady Mosston, had climbed the walls, which looked to Emily to be red marble. The two women, their faces filled with the joyous, carefree expressions of young girls, smiled down at them. Lady Mosston cried out.
“Everyone, there is a great field beyond the walls! It looks as if the grass is made of emerald and the trees of crystal. And there are people beyond, men and women! They are rushing here!”
Behind her, Lady Tallney was waving her hands at the approaching crowd in greeting.
Sir Herbert turned to her, his hand outstretched.
“Well, shall we go and meet our neighbours? And then, perhaps, a promenade around our new accommodations?”
Emily looked down at the hand, hearing the offer behind his words. Briefly, she thought of her husband. But only briefly. Their union had been a political, convenient affair. And Sir Herbert’s eyes held honest, genuine attraction.
She took the hand.
Forum > Public / Stories > Of Treason and Kings: Issue 1