Prologue: Abby End

The wooden platform creaked, adjusting to the weight of the corpulent headsman, the obese priest, and the bulky mayor. The wood was old and little used. The hinges of the trapdoor were rusted so stiff that the black masked executioner was leaning on a prybar, like it was an old man's cane. A single noose hung from the gallows. The rope was fresh, but the bright color didn't offset the ugly knots nor the burrs and threads. Abby knew her face was drained stark white.

She had been detained for eleven months. Pirate, murderer, thief, whore, none of those charges, condemnations and truths could compel her city to hang her. Mayor Winters had been harboring this vendetta for nearly a decade now. He was a hard man, a smart man, and a patient man. He had stolen her infamy, twisted her legend and perverted her triumphs. Two years ago, the town of Carter had greeted Abby with a hero's welcome. It was all Winters could do to stop a parade from forming. Her teeth ground, the sharpness and the pressure the only thing keeping her from crying. They had stripped her of everything; she couldn't even come to the gallows as Captain AuNord. Her braided longcoat and sword belts were no doubt hanging in Mayor Winters' closet. Her breeches and shirt had been traded for petticoats and bodice. She had been scrubbed down, her hair had been brushed out til it shined; she had managed to keep them from powdering and painting her face. The wool dress was light and flirty, though it was fastened all the way to her neck. Her shoes were soft cotton, unfit for the cold and wet stone walkways from the convent down to the square. She was already starting to shiver.

Carter had come out to watch her die. Five hundred men and women pressed together in a courtyard that had difficulty accommodating four. They were already getting rowdy and, behind the morning pall of fog that was only starting to burn off, the gathered shouted vitriol in practical anonymity. Abby cussed. Her two constables didn't bat an eye at her language, but the old nun escorting Abby slashed her stick across Abby's shoulders. Abby managed to kick out at the woman's feet. The wet stones and lucky angle sent the old bat tail over teakettle. The nearby crowd laughed from behind their rope. Even one of the constables cracked a momentary smile. If Abby hadn't pressed her luck by spitting on the nun, she might have got away with her act of aggression.

It was hard to breathe after a truncheon was hammered just below her ribs. She managed to keep from staggering down to her knees, but her wind had escaped and she grew red in the face, scrambling for breath. The nun, only because Abby was in her own considerable pain, made great show of forgiving the kick and turning the other cheek.

"In step now," said the constable that had slugged her, as he grabbed Abby about the right arm. The procession kept marching towards the gallows.

Her wheezing slowed as she was forced to climb the steps at a measured pace. She narrowed her eyes as Mayor Winters' smug face met her eyes. If she had to go to hell, Abby would be certain to clear a place for him at the devil's table. The constables handed Abby to the executioner. He gripped her by both wrists behind her back; she was turned to face the crowd. The wisps of fog dissipated in the few moments before Mayor Winters stepped in front of her.

"Abigail AuNord stands before you accused, convicted, and condemned for the crimes of witchcraft and laying with demons." His voice was deep and carried. Every word itched Abby's skin. She wasn't Abigail AuNord. She was Abby the Bastard. Abigail was the name on her baptismal certificate because the priest had told her mother that she was wrong. A girl was named Abigail, not Abby, no matter the mind of the mother.

Abby kept her objections to herself. She let Winters' words reach out to the sheep who had come to watch her die. The words held no matter for her. There was no salvation in the mayor. There was no salvation for Abby. The dream of escape had long since been dashed. She had tried and tried, and time was up. Thanks to her stay and her enthusiasm to run, her convent quarters had steel bars on its window and a wooden beam holding closed the door. Her best bet had been to get herself pregnant, but every attempt had left her soiled and empty. After a few weeks at the prison, they had learned to switch her jailors and fellow inmates for the nuns and novices. The woman were no better and no worse than the men she had been confined with. Abby attempted to befriend, to cajole, to bully, and to seduce favors from under habits and from behind crucifixes. She fared nearly as well as she had with men. Still there was always someone who blocked her escape. There was always someone who could eventually tell her no.

The priests and pastors who came for her confessions all fell easily to her charms and offers. The nuns who attempted to offer the same service found themselves unable to resist, once the quarters closed tightly enough. They hid their shame behind accusations of devilry or sorcery. For a while they kept coming, fear in their eyes as they entered her chamber. Pleasure in their eyes as they were marched out. Abby was always amazed they didn't give up on her. It must have been some sort of outside pressure, because Winters was adamant that she be allowed confession. As if it was horrendous that her soul could not be saved. They soon became wise and they knew she had her letters. For the last nine weeks she had been confessing by diary. Food was delivered through a slot in the door. The only human contact was the hurried footsteps as the novices hurried past her barred door. The loneliness and lack of touch began needling at her sanity.

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