Chapter 26: Execution!

(Lady Alwen of Oaklea narrates)

It is morning now and Henry has just breathed his last, poor man, now at eternal peace. He never fully woke up during that long night, so I comfort myself in knowing that he was ignorant of his painful wounds, and was now safe and sound, yet still looking out for us as he always did, in Paradise.

It is long past noon, when a pair of soldiers come to the brew house and drag poor delirious Stephen and I up to the road in front of the inn. There we find they have dragged a number of old tree trunks, that had originally been sawn into convenient lengths in a stack in the garden behind the Inn, onto the middle of the road. There next to them stands a man, naked to the waist, but with a leather helm upon his head, like the drawings of executioners I have seen the bards read gruesome stories from, to frighten children and full-growns alike. Standing a little apart from the executioner is the Count, now swapped his nightshirt for his ermine robes as befits the rank he holds. We do not have “Counts” over here, although the Normans call our shires “counties”, too many small boys snigger behind their hands at the word which is so disrespectful in our tongue. The Church advised against calling the Earls “Counts”, which they heed, but insist that the shires be regarded as Counties. The Counts are like one of our old Earls, of whom only a few exist now, replaced one by one by the Dukes appointed by the Norman Kings, except the Earls of the Borders and Marches, where their influence exceeds the single shires.

The guard, who has dragged me thus far, flings me to the ground at the Count’s feet. Although I have not drunk a drop for a full day and a morning, I summon enough spit to decorate his boots. The Count snarls at me and drags me up to stand by the arm, and indicates with his other arm, pointing away up the hill. It is quite sunny today, and the sun has moved well past the meridian. In the bright afternoon sunshine I can see a man, walking down the hill from the church, walking unsteadily, limping, dragging his feet as if he is extremely unwell. He leans heavily on a tall stick, taller even than he is. A stick that is wrapped in strips of cloth, some appearing unravelled as if he has walked a long way, from Bartown itself maybe, or even beyond.

My eyes grow accustomed to the brightness of the afternoon and I look closer at the man who cometh. He has a long, voluminous cloak with hood, covering him head to feet and wrapped around him, woven of dark dyed wool, the weave napped like that of velvet. The travel stained and dusty velvet shakes and shivers like it contains a man who is suffering from the ague or the flux or some other pestilence that looked as though it could take him from this mortal earth forever any second.