The Warder

by D K Williamson

“You’ve not changed a bit in my sixteen years.”

  Allan laughed. “No, we’ve changed together, lad.”

  . . .

  Chapter 2

  Sir Dech caught up to the train of horsemen and wagons on the road before noon. Fair weather and efficient travel coupled with delays for the train meant Dech joined several hours earlier than he hoped.

  Riding to the head of the column he slowed next to a knight clad much the same as himself, a simple kettle-hat, mail hauberk with surcoat over a gambeson, gamboised mail cuishes to cover the thighs, and high riding boots with steel shin guards. With some variation, every other knight in the train was similarly equipped.

  “Warder, I’m glad you could join us,” the knight said. “We’ll be in Ploene within the hour. Our last point before we return to the fortress. King’s Legion reports say an order knight dealt with the Hydell Road highwaymen. Your work?”

  “It needed doing.”

  “That it did and you look no the worse for wear.”

  Dech gestured over his shoulder at the train behind. He’d noticed how many shackled men and women rode in the wagons. “More than twenty men for the order. Any idea how many in Ploene?”

  “At least one,” the knight replied with a smile.

  Dech gave the knight an irritated look before returning the smile. “The road hasn’t dampened your humor, Samuel.”

  “No. I am but a poor knight-instructor though. I do not patrol as often as you do. This is a welcome break from the Fortress of the Order.”

  “Any trouble with the prisoners?”

  “One who tried to run two nights ago. That’s all. Said he couldn’t face being gelded. I know we’re not supposed to say anything, but I set him straight.”

  “He didn’t run again, did he? Seems like a sound decision. How many women for the abbeys?”

  “We left a dozen south at Winsom. The eight we have are bound for Cashel Abbey. The Abbess Dealan is said to be waiting for us at Ploene. She’ll travel with us from there.”

  Another knight of the order joined the pair at the lead, a young man knighted less than a year before. “We’ve an axle needs greasing on one of the wagons. It’ll hold til Ploene,” he said to Samuel as he slowed his horse to their pace. “Hail, Warder. Did you hear about Sir Niels?”

  “No. Was he apprehended?”

  “I’m afraid not. Sirs Dane and James of Leels learned he was in the Helsh Forest near Nevar and initiated a pursuit. Niels is dead… as is James.”

  Samuel grimaced. “Better to let such go than lose men trying to bring them to justice. Instead of one, we lose two.”

  “But Niels betrayed the order. He broke his oath,” the young knight said.

  “That he did, Magnus,” Samuel replied. “Banish those sorts and put a price on their heads, I say. We’ve few enough in the order to lose them as we did James.” He grimaced again and looked away. “Bah, it’s not my decision.”

  While in agreement with Samuel, the warder stayed silent.

  The column made its way into the outskirts of the city Ploene, a sizable enough settlement known for its market, the production of cloth, and its gallows, the primary site of death for commoners sentenced to execution within Duke Frederick’s domain.

  The train followed a street that ran along the city wall, stopping near the confines of the prison. Soon, the iron gates opened and the wagons rolled in followed closely by the knights.

  “Were expecting you last night,” one of the guards said as they dismounted.

  “We’re not late for the execution are we?” Samuel replied.

  “No,” he said turning and looking up at the clock tower a short distance away. “Two hours.”

  Samuel nodded. “How many?”

  “To be hung?”

  Samuel’s look hardened, but he said nothing.

  The guard held his hands up in a conciliatory manner. “Two women for the block and one man on the gallows for you. The block’s not public. It’s just the two. No heads to roll, so nothing for the crowds to see.”

  “Is Abbess Dealan here?”

  “At the church.”

  “We have time to grease the wagon axle,” Magnus said.

  “See to it,” Samuel ordered.

  . . .

  Two hours later, a handful of contrition knights stood at a second-story window overlooking the gallows inside the prison walls. Observing through a screen, they saw the last of the condemned being led up the high stairs to his place atop a drop door.

  “Anyone know which one is ours?” asked one of the knights.

  “The first man brought onto the gallows,” Samuel replied.

  Young Magnus grimaced. “It’s strange. Less than a year and a half ago, I stood on the gallows there. Is it always the end nearest us that the spared stand?”

  “It is,” Samuel said.

  “So they may exit through the gate in the wall below without hindrance,” Dech added.

  “I didn’t know you’d been to the prison here before,” Samuel said.

  “Just once,” was Dech’s simple reply.

  Samuel nodded. “I’m going below to be ready to receive our supplicant. You can stay and watch if you wish. I for one cannot stomach it,” he said as a man walked across the gallows and raised his hands to silent the crowd awaiting the hangings.

  The rest of the knights followed Samuel down the stairs and across the street.

  . . .

  The wagons were on the road less than an hour later, new charges aboard and freshly greased axle headed toward the Fortress of the Order.

  Not long after they were clear of the town, a commotion arose on the wagon carrying the women. With a shout from the Abbess, the train slowed to a stop.

  Dech and Magnus directed their horses toward the wagon and saw a platinum blonde-haired woman standing shackled in the bed. As they neared, they could make out her words.

  “—resolved to do better in the future. I fully accept responsibility for my actions, but the rest of my life spent in service? That’s not justice.”

  A tall ginger-haired woman stood on the ground nearby, her hands clasped behind her back, her horse standing behind her. The loose mantle she wore over a long-sleeved shirt and quilted breeches carried an emblem similar to those the knights wore, a roundel rather than shield.

  “Trouble, Abbess?” Dech said as they drew near.

  The abbess’ grey eyes shifted to Dech. “No trouble. Simply another sup—”

  Sir Knight,” the woman in the wagon cut in, “perhaps you are more understanding than the lady here. My offense does not warrant such a sentence. Life for—”

  “It is impolite to interrupt,” the abbess said as she brought a hand up and toward the woman. “And something I find most vexing.”

  The woman glared and opened her mouth to speak, but uttered not a sound. A look of panic crossed her face as she tried again with no more success.

  “Since you cannot speak, perhaps you might listen,” the abbess said curtly. “I am no lady. I am Abbess Dealan of the Order of Service Sisters of the Contrition House, superior of Cashel Abbey. I have stilled your voice and it will stay that way until you conduct yourself as you should. You have two options and only two. Serve as a sister of the order or die by the headsman’s blade. Those are your choices. You petitioned for admittance, yes?”

  The woman opened her mouth to reply, and then nodded. She tried once again to speak before taking her seat and glumly staring at the abbess.

  “Acceptance into the order is all that kept you from execution. You were spared for this reason and only this reason. Failure to abide by your word will return you to the block. Accept this and pursue the path with vigor. Be thankful or become a corpse,” the abbess said with a tight smile. She studied the woman until the prisoner lowered her head. At that, she looked at the warder. “We can proceed.”

  Dech looked to the head of the column and waved at Samuel who stood in his stirrups. With a return gesture and a few words, the train began rolling
again.

  The abbess swung herself aboard her mount in a practiced move and brought her horse to a walk matching that of Dech’s grey.

  “Abbess,” Magnus said with a touch of his helmet before he trotted toward the front of the column.

  “You look fit and unusually happy, Dech,” the abbess said, “but your eyes tell me you’re bit troubled as well.”

  “And you are the same as always, Dealan.”

  “Abruptness is a prerogative of middle age.”

  “You were abrupt when we first met years ago and long before that I would guess,” Dech said.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “but now it’s expected. Before this becomes a discussion of me, I’m not letting you off the hook. What troubles you?”

  “My past. Twice within days I have revisited places significant to my life. First time since joining the order for either. One by choice, the other by circumstance.”

  “Ploene?”

  “I’ve been there many times. I speak of the prison, the gallows specifically.”

  “I understand why it might trouble you. I lay upon the block there. Seeing the stained wood again was jarring the first time. Convergences occur, Dech. Once is likely simple happenstance. Twice or more may also be mere chance… or not. If it continues, well then, you might consider worrying.”

  “Worry?”

  “Yes. It might be something beyond us.”

  “That’s a tremendous comfort,” Dech said with a glare at the abbess.

  “Comfort was not my intent.”

  “I know.”

  . . .

  That evening, the train halted to make camp for the last time before the final stretch that would see them to their destinations.

  They ate before darkness fully fell, the woman Dealan had silenced still sullen. Barely touching her food, Samuel was concerned.

  “Did your spell sap her hunger as well?” he asked after pulling the abbess aside.

  “No,” was all she said.

  “Might you lift the spell so we can ask if she’s distressed?”

  “She is distressed because she just now realizes the ramifications of her actions. The consequences that put her among us are setting in. That is all of it. As for the spell, I lifted it hours ago. I didn’t mention it simply for the fact that I prefer her quiet.”

  “She’ll figure it out on her own then?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Then we’ll leave things as they are. Good night, Abbess.”

  The camp soon prepared for sleep, with Samuel setting the schedule for the watch among the knights, guarding against escape attempts as much as intruders.

  “I have you on the last watch, Warder,” he said as he passed Dech preparing his bedroll. “It’s not necessary you stand. We have ample knights available.”

  “You might as well be calling me lazy,” Dech said flatly.

  Samuel gave the warder a grinning glare before replying, “Fine, lose an hour’s sleep then.”

  Dech smiled as Samuel continued on his rounds. It dawned on him how much he missed the comradeship of his brothers in the order, something lacking lately as his duties kept him traveling far, wide, and generally by himself. On the occasions he did have companions, most viewed contrition knights as criminals or perhaps worse, priests in armor.

  Dech settled his head onto the rolled gambeson that served as a pillow and listened to the prisoners speaking quietly among themselves. It reminded him of his own journey to the Fortress of the Order as a shackled prisoner years before, the worried tones much the same. He looked at the reddish moon called Ruddy and thought of that time, grimacing at the memories before he drifted to sleep.

  When dreams came, he grimaced again as a man was taken from his cell and led to the head of a column of shackled and chained prisoners. Most of the prisoners looked sullenly at the dank stone floor, but a few glared bitterly at the man. Metallic clinks from the locks on the cuffs around his ankles sounded the addition of the man to the procession. The guard locked the man's hand shackles to the belt around his waist.

  “Come,” said the jailer with a gesture and a tug on the man's arm.

  The man short-stepped his way to the exit and was led through as the door swung open when he reached it. As he stepped into the bright late-morning, the sound of an unseen crowd startled him, a reaction not lost on the jailer.

  “Heh, it's quite the gathering today come to see you die. Might be it's you, or might be it's the eight of you getting sent over at once that brought the crowd. Least you'll die making folks happy,” the jailer said with a smile.

  Even chained, the man’s hard glare wiped the expression from the jailer’s face.

  When the line of eight chain-linked prisoners reached a gate in the high wall, they stopped.

  “You'll be taken through one at a time,” the jailer said. “You'll be hooded afore you're led out. Somebody'll lead you up the stairs. Nine steps. Nine, so's you don’t look the fool and try to step up number ten. Least you can do is hang with dignity, eh?”

  A guard knelt next to the man and unlocked the shackles on his ankles. Another guard brought a black hood of course cloth.

  The man looked upward, taking in the clear blue sky, just before the hood came over his head.

  The man heard three hard raps on wood, then a tug on his arm.

  “Let's go,” a voice said.

  A loud cry went up, and the man assumed he was nearing the gallows in full view of the crowd gathered to see the mass execution.

  “Remember, nine steps,” the same voice as before said over the noise. “Step up.”

  The man found the first step. It was wide and wood, he felt a slight sag as he put his weight on it.

  “He's a big one!” a raucous and abrasive voice yelled from somewhere to the man's left. “Make quite a hole if the rope snaps in two.”

  The man ignored the comment and the crowd, the noise becoming a dull roar in the background. Concentrate on the steps, he thought.

  “That's nine,” the man's escort said. “Keep moving straight ahead. That's it.”

  Several seconds later, the man felt another tug on his arm.

  “We're here. Turn left. Yeah, there. Stand still now or they’ll bind your feet,” the voice said. The escort kept his grip on the man's arm.

  Something brushed against the man's head and very quickly, he realized what it was, a noose. The rope was pulled through the knot until snug, and as the rope tightened around his neck the rough cloth covering his head tightened as well, lightly pressing upon his face.

  Over the next several minutes, the same process took place for the other seven condemned prisoners forming a line to the man's left.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” a masculine, clear, and high-pitched voice yelled from somewhere to the man's left at the center of the scaffold.

  “Silence. That's it,” the voice said as the crowd noise dwindled to nothing but a few coughs and sniffles.

  “These proceedings shall now commence. By the order, and under the right of high justice granted to Frederick, Duke of Endcaster, Lord of Sky Castle by His Royal Highness Harold of Arataine, these eight have been condemned to die at the hand of the executioner at this hour in the city of Ploene. The names of the criminals and their offenses having been posted on public boards for three days in accordance with the King’s Law. In the name of Duke Frederick and His Majesty King Harold, we shall proceed.”

  The man could hear paper being folded.

  “The honorable Bishop Morris shall offer a prayer for the soon departed.”

  “Doff your caps and bow your heads,” said another voice, deeper and more mellow than the previous speaker.

  “Let us pray. Our Creator, we beseech thee that thy forgiveness be granted to these eight men. Only thee can see into the heart and judge them worthy of forgiveness. Grant them merciful and swift departure from this world and speed their delivery to the destination ye choose. Amen.”

  The man heard a quiet murmur from the crowd.


  “Maintain your silence,” the high-pitched voice said.

  In the quiet, the man heard footfalls on wood. He had seen enough executions to assume they came from the speaker walking to the side of the gallows before the executioner threw the lever that would drop the platforms from under the condemned and end their lives.

  “Proceed,” the high-pitched voice said.

  The tension was palpable, but it didn't last long.

  The platform shook with a clunking sound as the drop doors opened and fell. A giant gasp from the crowd came just before the loud snap of ropes going suddenly taut and constricting around necks, then screams and shouts.

  The hand grasping the man squeezed tightly. “Oh, what a terrible sight,” the escort said in a tight voice. “A decapitation and a strangulation. You stay still, you were spared, the Contrition Order accepted your application. As soon as that poor bastard stops kicking and flailing we will take you from the gallows.”

  Eventually the strangling prisoner ceased his struggles and spasms. By then the crowd centered their attention on the man still standing on the gallows.

  Many people began yelling vociferously.

  “He cheated justice!”

  “He's shorted the tally! Ain't right, ain't right.”

  “Geld 'im now! Give the ladies a show!”

  “Remove the hood,” came the high-pitched voice over the crowd. “Remove the prisoner.”

  The noose and hood came off. The escort moved behind the man and made to unlock the shackles from the man's belt.

  Bishop Morris walked to the center of the gallows and raised his hands.

  “Silence. Silence,” he said as the crowd continued to yell.

  Despite the admonition, the crowd noise continued as the bishop began speaking about contrition knights and their importance to the church and the kingdom, but the man on the gallows ignored him as he looked at the faces in the crowd.

  His eyes stopped moving when they found a tall, graceful woman with honey-colored hair and deep blue eyes step to the front of the crowd nearest him.

  She smiled.

  “You live, my love. So long as that is so, there is a chance,” she managed over the noise of the crowd.

  To the man, it was the only sound in the world at that moment.