Eighteen

I, Said the Beetle...

“Tallis Vemnor, at your service m’lady,” laughed the man at Gratia’s side. She glanced at the dark-eyed, chestnut-haired man chained to her. He gave a half bow, which appeared rather absurd given the circumstances. She came to the conclusion that he was either very brave or rather mad. She’d never met anyone laughing on their death day. “So you’re the one they arrested for Sir Ashfain’s death.”

Gratia glared at him and with the last few ounces of strength left in her, retorted, “I didn’t kill him. Hold your tongue, barnboy!”

The man frowned. “I didn’t say you did. I just said you’re the one they arrested for it.” He looked away, disgruntled. “Fine, kick a man when he’s down. I’m not going to care much in a few minutes anyway.”

Gratia felt a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not in the best of moods.”

Tallis shrugged “Understandable, really. But if you can’t be cheerful on the day you meet your maker, when can you?” He grinned and kissed her full on the lips. She struggled away as best the chains would allow, but hadn’t the strength to scorn him. What was the point?

“Hey, cheer up lass! Let’s go give them one hell of a show.” She looked at him with a glimmer of amusement. If it weren’t for the circumstances, he would make an interesting companion, but she wasn’t in the mood for if it wasn’ts and what might have beens. Come to think of it, having her neck broken was rather appealing compared to spending a lifetime in that horrid cell knowing her lover’s real killer was somewhere else. All she could wish was that the killer struck the Orcan head of guard next time. 

She felt a sharp stab in the back.

“Right, let’s get this moving shall we. Shame, you missy were a real money spinner. Pity they couldn’t delay the hanging a couple of weeks and make us all rich.” The guard chuckled.

“Bastard,” Gratia spat. She tried to take a swipe at the gloating man without success due to the chains.

Tallis laughed. “Now, now. Don’t lose your head over this!” He chuckled. 

The jailer also got the joke and smirked.

The crowd roared as they were led out onto the wooden platform erected outside the dungeon door. The noise was deafening. The wooden boards stretched in front, ending in an awkward construction from which two long ropes dangled. Gratia felt a lump rise in her throat. For the first time the reality of the situation hit her full-on. The same must have happened to her companion, for he was silent, his face void of humour at last.

To the left, right, and front of the platform were people, a sea of life. Lizzy was there. Anger boiled in Gratia’s veins. Lizzy was here to see her hanged! There was nothing the witch could have done to help her, so why did she bother coming? The fear was overruled by a sudden, sickening feeling. Lizzy thought she did it! That was why she had come – to see her hanged.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another sharp prod in the back.

“Move and I’ll make you regret it,” said the jailer as he unchained Gratia’s hands. Suddenly, another man was beside them, dressed completely in black robes, his head covered by a hood. Gratia’s hands were wrenched behind her back and a thought struck her.

“Wait. Please wait, I have a last request!” she blurted.

The jailer and the executioner eyed one another warily.

“Every dead man’s allowed a last request you know,” conceded the jailer.

“But you remember last time we allowed a gypsy a last request, it cost the lives of three other men.”

“That’s true,” admitted the lanky man with a nod. “But she’s a woman, what harm can she do?” They both laughed.

“Well then missy, what’s your request?” he leered at her. “I don’t think they could postpone the execution long enough for a quickie.” The two men laughed again.

“I have a terrible itch around my wrists. I simply have to scratch it.”

The executioner frowned. “An itch?”

“Yes, an itch. You wouldn’t send me to my maker uncomfortable now, would you? Not after you’ve both gone to so much trouble to make me feel at home in the cells.” She smiled sweetly at the two men in turn.

“It’s trickery,” said the executioner. “Out of all the hundreds of things you could ask for as a last request, to scratch an itch isn’t what immediately springs to mind, surely?”

“Oh, but I swear, I cannot take a dive with a grimace on my face. People shall think I am afraid!”

“She has a point there,” agreed the jailer. “A woman has her pride, even at her death.”

The crowd began to chant. They had been watching the group talking for a good few minutes and now they wanted what they had come to see. Aware of the unrest, the jailer added, “Oh just let her scratch her bloody wrist and get on with it.” 

Gratia felt the pressure on her hands released. She gave a half-smile as she turned the silver bracelet to scratch her wrist. “There, much better.” She smiled again.

The executioner mercilessly jerked her wrists behind her and bound them tightly with strong rope that cut into her flesh. “Any last request for you, poorboy?” sneered the executioner, prodding Tallis. The scruffy, unshaven man’s eyes were wide. He was staring at the noose that swung slightly in the breeze. “I said, any last– Oh, what’s the use.” The hooded man grinned and began to push them both forwards. The crowed cheered. Lizzy stood silently watching the proceedings without expression.

The jailer took Tallis off to one side and slipped the first noose around his neck, giving it a playful yank just to make sure it wasn’t loose. The crowed laughed at this. Gratia was positioned above trapdoor number two. She felt a sudden difference as the rope was hooked around her throat. One minute it had all seemed like a bad dream. Only now, with the damp, unforgiving collar hugging her flesh, did it suddenly and completely sober her. Everything became crystal clear: the crowd became hundreds of individual heads and the buildings millions of individual bricks. She knew that if she looked into the sky, the clouds would separate into billions of separate ice crystals. She also knew that if she did that, she would never be able to tear her mind away from them. Using every last ounce of strength she had left, she began to mumble the first rune.

A sour egg cracked against her right shoulder. The first rune complete, she forced her tongue to draw the second. A large red fruit hit her mid-way, tears began to scorch her cheeks and it was all she could do not to freeze. The executioner moved slowly away from her as another egg crashed against the side of her head. The third – she was trembling now, everything seemed in slow motion –fourth. His hand was on the lever. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pushed pressure down upon it. 

She uttered the fifth rune and a bright white light surrounded her.

As if a spectator in the crowd, she saw the ground beneath Tallis dissolve. His stiff body dropped down so slowly that he could have been floating. There was no sound, everything was silent. The rope tightened and he bounced, his head bobbing back up through the trap like a sick encore, then down again; hanged twice. The rope began to jerk uncontrollably as Tallis’s body went into spasms, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. A handful of people rushed forward to grab his legs and put his suffering to an overdue end.

But what of herself? She couldn’t quite see. She turned to get a better look. There – that was her noose over there, dangling through the trapdoor – but it was empty! No, that couldn’t be. Maybe it was badly tied. Perhaps her body had slipped from it? Suddenly, the crowd seemed to jerk in unison, their eyes widening, hands flying to their mouths. 

The light grew brighter, flooding her sight, giving her tunnel vision. There was Lizzy. She stood there. She was smiling. 

Her head felt like a block of lead and the light blinded her completely. 

Gratia passed out.