Seventeen

It Never Rains...

They sat together by the fire, Lizzy cradling Gratia’s head in her arms. Neither of them could possibly hope for the release of sleep, not tonight. Both were silent, not a word had been uttered since the palaver of the early hours had passed. It was dark now and fast approaching midnight. 

The flames danced and spat about the hearth and a strong wind was picking up outside. Silence held the weight of eternity. Any rational thought that dared show itself would surly be swallowed up by the sense of loss that engulfed the house. Even the crackle of wood burning seemed to dissolve before it reached human ears. A large grandmother clock stood in the corner, measuring the passage of time, yet the room itself was timeless. Minutes stretched into hours and hours in turn became minutes. Neither woman knew how long they had been there, and neither really cared. They had lost all reason for time, and the fact that they were each companion to the other in their grief was little consolation.

Then it came. The clock hit quarter to midnight and a heavy weight knocked against the front door. Neither woman moved. Another came, more frantic this time, more urgent. Still they sat together on the rug, the sound appearing to curl around them, not wishing to disturb with its presence. 

Eventually there came a splintering crack of lock wood as the group of heavy-set guards intruded upon the household. The sudden burst of excitement from the hall seemed absurd in such a house of mourning; an abstract burst of colour on black canvas. Three large men cracked open the door to the study, taken slightly aback by the calmness surrounding them. Each guard stood in place, staring at the two women. Then, oblivious to the atmosphere engulfing the house, the Orcan head of guard elbowed his way past the others and pointed an accusing finger towards Gratia.

“There, that’s the one! Well, don’t just stand there, arrest her!” he squealed with absurd excitement.

The three large bulks hesitated slightly, then began moving towards the huddled couple. The women continued to sit, blind to the surrounding activity. 

One of the guards coughed politely. "Err, ma’ms – if you could possibly see your way fit to co-operating with us, this need not cause distress–”

“Oh, shut up Grawl!” screamed the chief guard. “We’re going to hang her! Of course it’s going to be distressing, and bloody, and down-right painful if I have anything to do with it!”

The junior guard looked somewhat uncomfortable for a moment and then, battling his conscience, he slowly reached out to grasp Gratia’s arm and haul her to her feet. Before he had the chance to do so, she uncoiled herself from Lizzy’s arms and stood up, eyes still fixed on the fire. Lizzy made no move. It was hard to tell if she had even noticed Gratia’s movement.

“Err, thank you miss,” mumbled the guard, who was grateful that he wouldn’t have to use harshness on a lady.

“I hereby arrest you in the name of the High Excellence of Lariaan, for crimes relating to murder and being of racial origin unbeneficial to that of the town! Also, you attempted to fool the town guard and prevent justice, disturb the peace, obtain money through dishonest practises, again murder, and damaged property to attempt to cover up your crime. Also, living under–” The Orc studied the list in his hand. “Oh, what does it matter? In short, you’re gonna hang.” His lips curled into a gleeful grin. Gratia, moving as if in a trance, turned from the blazing mass and walked slowly but steadily through the door and down the corridor. The Orc’s smile faded somewhat. This was not the hysterical response he had hoped for. In fact, it wasn’t much fun at all.

The guards turned and followed her out in single file. Once the last of them had left, the guard-head pushed the shattered door shut and took a few tentative steps towards Lizzy. He crouched down by her side.

“Well, well my sweet. All alone in this cruel world.” He gave a mocking sigh. “You do know that if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll be around.” He took a strand of her hair in his hand and twisted it between his fingers, the sickly sweet smile returning to his lips. Then he stood and marched back out into the street to join his patrol. A single salty tear rolled down Lizzy’s cheek, yet she did not stir.

Gratia sat alone in her cell. It was dark and cold and smelled of leaf mould. She could hear small creatures, rodents no doubt, scampering about somewhere in the gloom. There was a scream and then a hoot of laughter from a whore’s cell next door. She sat cross-legged on the muddy floor. There was a plate of rusk bread and a cup of water by the bars. A large black rat was chewing thoughtfully on it, watched her through beady eyes. The dirt in the back corner of the cell had been scraped back a little to provide a make-shift cesspit. When she had first entered her confinements the stench had insulted her nostrils to the point where she had to fight not to be sick, but now she had been there for a few hours it didn’t bother her. In fact, she could barely smell it anymore. 

Outside the sturdy iron bars of her caged, the ground was scattered with straw and she could see across into another cell which held two men. One was an old madman with wispy grey hair and skinny features. He was shackled to a wall, cursing obscenities and screaming poems to the dead. The other was a handsome man with a dashing head of chestnut curls. He sat calmly in a corner scratching something in the dirt with his finger. Occasionally, he would glance over at her and smile, and every now and then he would shout to the madman to “Shut your mouth before I beat you so hard you really will have something to scream about!” But the madman kept raving, and the youth kept drawing, and life went on – or rather, existence happened.

She did not sleep. Dawn was heralded by a wiry man, no older then nineteen, scraping a bunch of keys along the bars and cheerfully shouting abuse at the inmates to get off their lazy backsides and look like savages. The reason for this eluded her, but a couple of hours later the man came back past with the most extraordinary group of people Gratia had ever seen.

Like some surrealist painting, a group of noble men and women in their high heels and silken trimmings trotted past with scented hankies to their noses and frowns of disgust etched on their faces. Each had paid a shilling to enter and glance upon the most rotten criminals Lariaan had to offer. In truth, they were getting a pretty raw deal as Lariaan’s rottenest criminals where probably out burgling their homes at that very moment, not stuck behind large iron bars with half-wit whores and semi-skilled pickpockets.

“And this here,” exclaimed the jailer, “is the infamous Gypsy Queen of Lariaan, who is responsible for Sir Ashfain’s recent and untimely demise!” The jailor grinned at her through the rusty poles. Encouraged by the shocked gasp from his guests, he added, “Yes, the rottenest scum of them all! A true heartless woman indeed. Due to be hanged tomorrow eve. You are the few lucky patrons to see the slug before she is punished for her crime! A ha’pney per head for the hanging if you’re interested sirs, madams. Ha’peny per head.” The crowd burst into commotion and began dishing out their money for a place at the public execution. 

Gratia hung her head and began to weep.