Age of Fealty: Issue 1
Forum Home > Public : Stories > Age of Fealty: Issue 1In an age of clashing swords and battling kingdoms, it is the shining knight and regal kings whom history remembers. But behind them, the grim machinery of politics and intrigue directs the flow of history. These are the stories of those who find their part in the great tapestry of fate cut short. For as great families and ordained kings rise to glory, the headsmans’ blade awaits those who fall short in their struggles. For it is often proved, when one seeks to win the throne, ones’ reach too often exceeds ones’ grasp…
The Sovereign City of Valenci, Year of the Divines 2907
Whispers passed from man to woman, from neighbour to stranger, as the crowd shuffled around the raised platform. Before them, red and black stone of the fortress-prison of Ila Trascares loomed, tall and ominous. They had been arriving for close to an hour, passers-by and foreigner joining them as the growing cluster of people drew interest. The story passed from person to person, letting all know what was to happen.
Oh, what a scandal! That Signor Mattalani would plot so, to discredit his rivals in the Parlia, why, it is beyond belief.
How terrible, and that he plotted with the Vetiri family to bring mercenaries into the city, when his plans at impeachment failed, what is the city coming to?
That is not all, the Capulares also tried to becoming involved in the coup, as if the Parlia had not honoured their family enough. Treason, it was nothing but treason!
Hanged they were, and rightly so, thus suffer all tyrants. But is this not too much? Signora Mattalani could not have known of her husbands plots, and what of Signora Capulares? Both she and her daughter will mount the scaffold today. And the maids are to die tomorrow!
Bah, they are kin to traitors, and their willing! This city did not survive nine hundred years by allowing the seed to traitors and tyrants to grow. The Vetiri women are to go with them, and good riddance I say.
Hear hear, and it’s not as if they’re going to kick and dangle like their menfolk. No, one quick swing and it’ll be over, floating in the clouds with the Seven Who Decree.
Ha, more like shrieking in the Lands Beneath while the Five Accursed have their sport!
These, and a hundred other comments flitted amongst the crowd.
The gates of the prison opened wide on squeaking hinges, and the crowd held their breath. As five female figures in rich fabric were marched out into the light, escorted by a dozen of the City Guard in mail and tabard, the jeers began.
-/-
As the guards escorted her forward, Signora Andrea Vetiri felt tears pricking her eyes. How could it have come to this? Her husband and his brother had been two of the most influential figures within the Parlia, the ruling council of Valenci. Their power had only been curtailed by the doddering old men of the conservative elements, and the traditional view of any ambitious family as budding tyrants. It had been a good match for her, but now she, her sister-in-law, and the ladies of two other august families were to be put to death for such associations. Behind her, Signora Constanza Capulares comforted her weeping young daughter Julita as best she could, given that both of their hands were tied in front of them.
They emerged into the bright sunlight, making Andrea squint. At her side, her sister-in-law Maria Vetiri did the same. The women walking in front of them, Signora Violeta Mattalani, stumbled slightly, her head shaking. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, watching the other woman’s haughty bearing break. Then, her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she saw what had truly made Signora Mattalani flinch. Ten paces in front of them, surrounded by the jeering crowd, the scaffold rose six feet above them. A man in the robes of a city magistrate stood atop it, but that was not what mattered. Even at this angle, Andrea could see the rounded shape of the block. The very block upon which their heads were to be struck off. Tearing her eyes away from the terrible sight, Andrea looked around, desperate for some sign of hope. She found none. Of the crowd seething around the scaffold, not one seemed distraught or resolved to protect them. Looking behind her, Andrea could see men with crossbows patrolling the battlements of Ila Trascares, their eyes searching the crowd. Clearly, the Parlia had no intention of allowing any rescue attempts.
A sound to her left drew her attention. As their escort came to a halt and split in half, six guards moving to surround the scaffold, a further four approached in the company of two men, one in black, the other in white. The man in white wore the robes of The Anointed, priests of the Divines, but it was the black-cloaked figure who drew her immediate attention. A great, two-handed sword was gripped in his hands, pointing up towards the sky, while a black hood obscured his face. The executioner. A strangled sob came from behind her, and Andrea turned to see Julita practically collapse to her knees, her mother barely managing to hold on to her right arm. The young woman wore a high-waisted gown of deep green with padded and slashed sleeves, her dark hair protruding in a braid from a sort of cap.
The two men mounted the scaffold, taking up positions on either side of the block. Two of the soldiers went up with them, standing to either side of the steps. The official standing right at the front unrolled the parchment he grasped, and began to speak. Andrea refused to listen. The words were all lies, deriding her husband for his ambition and accusing him of aspiring to tyranny. Ridiculous. It was the small-minded oafs of the Parlia who refused to acknowledge his brilliance. But these shallow, vulgar peasants would never understand that. No, all they would do is cheer and rage as their betters commanded them. Her husband had always said that the ‘Will of the People’ held too much sway over the Parlias’ decisions. As the magistrate finished his speech, the crowd roared their approval of this terrible injustice. He read off the first name to forfeit her head.
“Signora Violeta Mattalani, for foul and perverse treason.”
The thirty-something woman, clad in a high-waisted blue gown and with brown hair in the long ringlets currently fashionable, was seized by two of the guards and dragged forward to the steps of the scaffold. Andrea looked on, fear spiking through her heart. Signora Mattalani was forced to climb slowly by her skirts catching on the steps. While having her hands bound in front allowed her to lift them, progress was still slow.
Eventually, the woman reached the top, and Andrea felt her heart quail at the thought that, soon, she too would mount the scaffold. Beside her, her sister-in-law Maria and young Julita Capulares both whimpered.
-/-
The seething mass of commoners and city-folk watched as the noblewoman came into view. A rather plain-faced woman, but wearing fine cloth worth enough gold to feed a family for a month, she was everything they expected the wife of a would-be tyrant to look like. Several of the rougher men started call out.
“Show us ‘er tits!”
“Come on, ‘how us some leg!”
The tall lady remained imperious, instead lifting her skirts slightly and turning to kneel before the Anointed with her head bowed. Over the jeers of the crowd, the condemmed lady received her final blessing, wishing her eternal peace in the hereafter. Rising to her feet, Signora Mattalani approached the block, prodded forward by one of the guards.
As the assembled men and women watched, she knelt before the upraised log that formed the headsman’s block. Too wide across for her to lay her head down comfortably, there was no notch or indentation in which the lady could place her chin. Instead, Violeta Mattalani laid her entire chest across the bare wood of the block, leaving her chin hanging just over the edge. Even so, she could see the rounded wicker basket just on the other side of the block. Her hands, still bound by rope, remained on the other side of the block, fingers clasped together in prayer. The executioner lifted his sword. A long, two-handed thing, the blade as wide as three fingers at the narrowest point and ending in a blunt, rounded curve. The headsman raised it up and over his head, until it was practically pointing at the wood of the scaffold. The crowd held its breath. Then suddenly, the sword came flashing down in a great gleaming arc.
The blade thudded into the wood of the block barely two inches from the edge, cleaving through meat and bone as it did. Blood sprayed, and Signora Mattalani’s head tumbled down in a whirl of brown hair and crimson fluid. It landed in the basket with a dull thump as the headless torso, blood still leaking from the stump of the neck, twitched. As the movement ceased, the crowd cheered, glad to see a traitor to the city perish. The two guards stepped forward and took hold of the corpse, dragging it away to the side of the scaffold, where it was wrapped in a sheet by a handful of men in the white robes of the lay clergy. The executioner gazed down into the basket at his work. Signora Mattalani’s lips were firmly pressed together, her eyes closed. Wiping the block down with a cloth, the executioner quickly cleaned his sword, before preparing for the next prisoner to mount the scaffold.
The Sovereign City of Valenci, Year of the Divines 2907
Whispers passed from man to woman, from neighbour to stranger, as the crowd shuffled around the raised platform. Before them, red and black stone of the fortress-prison of Ila Trascares loomed, tall and ominous. They had been arriving for close to an hour, passers-by and foreigner joining them as the growing cluster of people drew interest. The story passed from person to person, letting all know what was to happen.
Oh, what a scandal! That Signor Mattalani would plot so, to discredit his rivals in the Parlia, why, it is beyond belief.
How terrible, and that he plotted with the Vetiri family to bring mercenaries into the city, when his plans at impeachment failed, what is the city coming to?
That is not all, the Capulares also tried to becoming involved in the coup, as if the Parlia had not honoured their family enough. Treason, it was nothing but treason!
Hanged they were, and rightly so, thus suffer all tyrants. But is this not too much? Signora Mattalani could not have known of her husbands plots, and what of Signora Capulares? Both she and her daughter will mount the scaffold today. And the maids are to die tomorrow!
Bah, they are kin to traitors, and their willing! This city did not survive nine hundred years by allowing the seed to traitors and tyrants to grow. The Vetiri women are to go with them, and good riddance I say.
Hear hear, and it’s not as if they’re going to kick and dangle like their menfolk. No, one quick swing and it’ll be over, floating in the clouds with the Seven Who Decree.
Ha, more like shrieking in the Lands Beneath while the Five Accursed have their sport!
These, and a hundred other comments flitted amongst the crowd.
The gates of the prison opened wide on squeaking hinges, and the crowd held their breath. As five female figures in rich fabric were marched out into the light, escorted by a dozen of the City Guard in mail and tabard, the jeers began.
-/-
As the guards escorted her forward, Signora Andrea Vetiri felt tears pricking her eyes. How could it have come to this? Her husband and his brother had been two of the most influential figures within the Parlia, the ruling council of Valenci. Their power had only been curtailed by the doddering old men of the conservative elements, and the traditional view of any ambitious family as budding tyrants. It had been a good match for her, but now she, her sister-in-law, and the ladies of two other august families were to be put to death for such associations. Behind her, Signora Constanza Capulares comforted her weeping young daughter Julita as best she could, given that both of their hands were tied in front of them.
They emerged into the bright sunlight, making Andrea squint. At her side, her sister-in-law Maria Vetiri did the same. The women walking in front of them, Signora Violeta Mattalani, stumbled slightly, her head shaking. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, watching the other woman’s haughty bearing break. Then, her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she saw what had truly made Signora Mattalani flinch. Ten paces in front of them, surrounded by the jeering crowd, the scaffold rose six feet above them. A man in the robes of a city magistrate stood atop it, but that was not what mattered. Even at this angle, Andrea could see the rounded shape of the block. The very block upon which their heads were to be struck off. Tearing her eyes away from the terrible sight, Andrea looked around, desperate for some sign of hope. She found none. Of the crowd seething around the scaffold, not one seemed distraught or resolved to protect them. Looking behind her, Andrea could see men with crossbows patrolling the battlements of Ila Trascares, their eyes searching the crowd. Clearly, the Parlia had no intention of allowing any rescue attempts.
A sound to her left drew her attention. As their escort came to a halt and split in half, six guards moving to surround the scaffold, a further four approached in the company of two men, one in black, the other in white. The man in white wore the robes of The Anointed, priests of the Divines, but it was the black-cloaked figure who drew her immediate attention. A great, two-handed sword was gripped in his hands, pointing up towards the sky, while a black hood obscured his face. The executioner. A strangled sob came from behind her, and Andrea turned to see Julita practically collapse to her knees, her mother barely managing to hold on to her right arm. The young woman wore a high-waisted gown of deep green with padded and slashed sleeves, her dark hair protruding in a braid from a sort of cap.
The two men mounted the scaffold, taking up positions on either side of the block. Two of the soldiers went up with them, standing to either side of the steps. The official standing right at the front unrolled the parchment he grasped, and began to speak. Andrea refused to listen. The words were all lies, deriding her husband for his ambition and accusing him of aspiring to tyranny. Ridiculous. It was the small-minded oafs of the Parlia who refused to acknowledge his brilliance. But these shallow, vulgar peasants would never understand that. No, all they would do is cheer and rage as their betters commanded them. Her husband had always said that the ‘Will of the People’ held too much sway over the Parlias’ decisions. As the magistrate finished his speech, the crowd roared their approval of this terrible injustice. He read off the first name to forfeit her head.
“Signora Violeta Mattalani, for foul and perverse treason.”
The thirty-something woman, clad in a high-waisted blue gown and with brown hair in the long ringlets currently fashionable, was seized by two of the guards and dragged forward to the steps of the scaffold. Andrea looked on, fear spiking through her heart. Signora Mattalani was forced to climb slowly by her skirts catching on the steps. While having her hands bound in front allowed her to lift them, progress was still slow.
Eventually, the woman reached the top, and Andrea felt her heart quail at the thought that, soon, she too would mount the scaffold. Beside her, her sister-in-law Maria and young Julita Capulares both whimpered.
-/-
The seething mass of commoners and city-folk watched as the noblewoman came into view. A rather plain-faced woman, but wearing fine cloth worth enough gold to feed a family for a month, she was everything they expected the wife of a would-be tyrant to look like. Several of the rougher men started call out.
“Show us ‘er tits!”
“Come on, ‘how us some leg!”
The tall lady remained imperious, instead lifting her skirts slightly and turning to kneel before the Anointed with her head bowed. Over the jeers of the crowd, the condemmed lady received her final blessing, wishing her eternal peace in the hereafter. Rising to her feet, Signora Mattalani approached the block, prodded forward by one of the guards.
As the assembled men and women watched, she knelt before the upraised log that formed the headsman’s block. Too wide across for her to lay her head down comfortably, there was no notch or indentation in which the lady could place her chin. Instead, Violeta Mattalani laid her entire chest across the bare wood of the block, leaving her chin hanging just over the edge. Even so, she could see the rounded wicker basket just on the other side of the block. Her hands, still bound by rope, remained on the other side of the block, fingers clasped together in prayer. The executioner lifted his sword. A long, two-handed thing, the blade as wide as three fingers at the narrowest point and ending in a blunt, rounded curve. The headsman raised it up and over his head, until it was practically pointing at the wood of the scaffold. The crowd held its breath. Then suddenly, the sword came flashing down in a great gleaming arc.
The blade thudded into the wood of the block barely two inches from the edge, cleaving through meat and bone as it did. Blood sprayed, and Signora Mattalani’s head tumbled down in a whirl of brown hair and crimson fluid. It landed in the basket with a dull thump as the headless torso, blood still leaking from the stump of the neck, twitched. As the movement ceased, the crowd cheered, glad to see a traitor to the city perish. The two guards stepped forward and took hold of the corpse, dragging it away to the side of the scaffold, where it was wrapped in a sheet by a handful of men in the white robes of the lay clergy. The executioner gazed down into the basket at his work. Signora Mattalani’s lips were firmly pressed together, her eyes closed. Wiping the block down with a cloth, the executioner quickly cleaned his sword, before preparing for the next prisoner to mount the scaffold.
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