by Sally Green
“His interests are of no concern to you. What is of interest and concern to me is that you do not express an opinion that counters that of the king.”
“I’ve never expressed any opinion that doesn’t agree with Father’s.”
“You implied to your maid that your marriage could be improved upon and that you don’t wish to marry Prince Tzsayn.”
“No, I merely said that Diana’s marriage could be successful in a different way.”
“To disagree with the king’s plans for you is unacceptable.”
“I’m disagreeing with you, not with the king’s plans for me.”
“I often wonder,” Noyes interrupted, “at what point a traitor is made. When precisely the line is crossed between loyalty and betrayal.”
Catherine straightened her back. “I have crossed no line.”
And she hadn’t: she had done nothing, except think of Ambrose.
“In my experience . . . and, Princess Catherine, I do consider my experience in this area to be considerable,” murmured Noyes. “In my experience, a traitor in the heart and mind is soon a traitor in deed.”
And the way he looked at her, it felt as if he truly could see inside Catherine’s head. But she stared back at him, saying, “I am no traitor. I will marry Prince Tzsayn.” Catherine knew this to be true. She would soon be married to a man she’d never even met, but she couldn’t help her mind and her heart belonging elsewhere. Couldn’t help that she thought of Ambrose constantly, loved her conversations with him, contrived to be close to him, and, yes, had once touched his arm. Of course, if Ambrose touched her, he’d be executed, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t touch him. But were these thoughts and one touch really traitorous deeds?
“It’s best to be clear where the line is, Princess Catherine,” Noyes said quietly.
“I’m clear, thank you, Noyes.”
“And also to be clear on the consequences.” He waved his hand casually, almost dismissively. “And to that end you are required to attend the execution of the Norwend traitor, and witness what happens to those who betray the king.”
“A punishment, a warning, and a lesson, all rolled neatly into one.” Catherine mimicked Noyes’s hand wave.
Noyes’s face was blank as he replied, “It’s the king’s command, Your Highness.”
Sadly Diana had had a nasty trip down some stone stairs the day after Catherine’s interview and had been unable to resume her duties because of a broken arm. Catherine’s other maids, Sarah and Tanya, had been with Diana at the time but somehow had been unable to prevent the accident. “We agree with Noyes, Your Highness,” Tanya had said with a smile. “Traitors should be punished . . .”
Catherine was brought back to the present by shouts from the crowd: “Bradwell! Bradwell!”
Two men had come up the steps onto the scaffold, both dressed in black. The older man held up his hand to the people. His young and surprisingly cherubic assistant carried the tools of their trade, a sword and simple black hood.
“It’s Bradwell,” Harold said unnecessarily, leaning over Boris to Catherine. “He’s carried out over a hundred executions. A hundred and forty-one, I think it is. And he never takes more than one strike.”
“A hundred and forty-one,” Catherine echoed. She wondered how many of them Harold had witnessed.
Bradwell was walking across the scaffold, swinging his sword arm as if warming up his shoulder muscles, and flexing his head from side to side and then around. Harold rolled his eyes. “Shits, he looks ridiculous. Gateacre should have been given the job.”
“I believe the Marquess of Norwend requested Bradwell and the king obliged,” Boris said. “Norwend wanted it done cleanly and seemed to think Bradwell was best. But there are no guarantees on that score.”
“Gateacre has a clean cut too,” Harold said.
“I agree. He would have been my choice. Bradwell is looking rather past it. Still, it might add another level of interest if he botches the job.”
At the mention of the Marquess of Norwend, Catherine’s gaze had moved to the opposite side of the scaffold to the other raised viewing platform. She had felt it too risky to discuss the people there unprompted, but now that Boris had brought the subject up she felt she could ask, “Is that the Marquess of Norwend on the other platform, in the green jacket?”
“Indeed. And all the Norwend clan with him,” Boris replied. Though Catherine noted it was only the male members of the family. “The traitor’s kin must witness the execution; indeed, they must call for the traitor’s death, or they will lose their titles and all their lands.”
Catherine knew the law well enough. “And what of their honor?”
Boris snorted. “They’re trying to cling on to that, but if they can’t even control one of their own they’ll struggle to maintain their position at court.”
“Honor and position at court being one and the same,” Catherine replied.
Boris looked at Catherine. “As I said, they’re barely clinging on to either.” He turned back to the opposite platform, adding, “I see your guard is with them, though thankfully he’s not in uniform.”
Catherine didn’t dare comment. Was Ambrose not wearing the Royal Guard’s uniform as a mark of respect for royalty or disrespect for them? She knew he had his own views on honor. He talked of doing the right thing, of wanting to defend Brigant, and of helping make the country great again, not for self-gain but to help all in the country who were suffering in poverty.
She had noticed Ambrose when she’d taken her seat and had forced herself to turn away, but now Boris had mentioned him she could allow herself a slightly longer look. His hair, golden white in the sunlight, was loose and falling in soft waves around his face and shoulders. He was wearing a black jacket with leather straps and silver buckles, black trousers, and boots. His face was solemn and pale. He was staring at the executioner and hadn’t shifted his gaze toward Catherine since her arrival.
Catherine looked at Ambrose for as long as she would an ordinary man, then she made herself turn away, but still his image lingered in her head: his hair, his shoulders, his lips . . .
A flurry of courtiers appeared from behind the scaffold. From the way they were stepping back and bowing, it was obvious that her father was on his way. Catherine’s heart beat erratically. She had lived a sheltered life in the queen’s wing of the castle with her mother and maids, going weeks or months without seeing her father. For her, his one and only daughter, his presence was still an occasion.
The king appeared, walking quickly, his red and black jacket emphasizing his wide shoulders, his tall hat adding to his height. Catherine rose swiftly to her feet and demurely lowered her head as she sank into a deep curtsy. She was on a platform above the king, but her head should be lower than his. Tall as her father was, it was still a contortion. Catherine held her stomach tight and thighs tense in a semi-crouch. Her corset dug sharply into her waist. She concentrated on the discomfort, knowing she’d outlast it. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the king. He leaped onto the royal platform, strode forward, and the crowd, on seeing him clearly, cheered, and a long slow shout went up, “Aloysius! Aloysius!”
Boris rose from his bow and Catherine waited the required two extra counts before lifting her head. The king was motionless, looking to the crowd, and he didn’t acknowledge Catherine at all. Then he sat on the seat next to Harold, red cushions having appeared moments before to ease his royal rump. Catherine stood, feeling the relief in her stomach. Harold too had straightened from his bow and stood stiffly, hesitating before sitting, though Catherine was sure he’d be delighted to be next to the king. She waited for Boris to sit, and then she straightened her skirt and retook her own place.
Things moved quickly now. The king wasn’t noted for his patience, after all. More men ascended the scaffold. There were four men in black and four in guard uniforms, and barely seen
among them, diminished, small, and frail, was the prisoner.
The crowd jeered and shouted, “Traitor!” Then, “Whore!” and “Bitch!” and worse, much worse.
There were words Catherine knew and had occasionally come across in reading but had never heard spoken, not even by Boris, and now they were flying through the air around her. They were more powerful than she’d known words could be, and they were not beautiful, poetic, or clever, but base and vulgar, like a slap in the face.
Catherine caught a glimpse of Ambrose, still and stiff opposite her, his face contorted as the crowd jeered and insulted his sister. Catherine shut her eyes.
Boris hissed in her ear, “You’re not looking, princess. You’re here to see what happens to traitors. It’s for your own good. So, if you don’t turn to face the scaffold, I’ll pin your eyes open myself.”
Catherine didn’t doubt Boris’s sincerity. She opened her eyes and turned back to the scaffold.
Lady Anne Norwend was dressed in a gown of blue silk with silver lace. Her jewels sparkled in the sunlight and her blonde hair, pinned up, glowed gold. In normal times, Lady Anne was considered beautiful, but today was far from normal. Now she was painfully thin, her skin pale, and she was held upright by two guards. But most noticeable of all was her mouth: thick black lines of twine stretched from her top lip to her bottom where her mouth had been sewn up, and dried blood covered her chin and neck. Her tongue had already been cut out. Catherine wanted to look to Ambrose, but didn’t dare turn to him, couldn’t bear to see him again. What must he be thinking to see his sister like this? Catherine stared in the direction of Lady Anne and found the way to do it was to concentrate on the guard holding her up, and how fat his fingers were and how tight his grip was.
The king’s speaker stepped forward to address the crowd, demanding silence. When the din subsided he began reading from a scroll, listing Lady Anne’s crimes. “Luring a married man into temptation” referred to her relationship with Sir Oswald Pence. “Failing to attend on the king when requested” meant fleeing with Sir Oswald when Noyes and his men confronted them. “Murder of the king’s men” meant just that, and hard as it was to believe looking at Lady Anne now, she had herself stabbed one of the king’s soldiers in the fight that left three dead including Sir Oswald. The murder was the key reason she was to be executed; murder of one of the king’s men was tantamount to killing the king himself—it was high treason, and so, to round his speech off, the speaker said, “And for being a traitor to Brigant and our glorious king.”
The crowd went wild.
“The traitor, murderer, and whore is to be stripped of all possessions, which are forfeit to the king.”
One of the black-clothed men approached Lady Anne and began removing her jewels one by one. Each time he took an item—a brooch, a ring, a bracelet—there were cheers and shouts from the crowd. Each item was put into a casket held by another man. When the jewels were all removed, that man took a knife and cut the back of her dress, and a fresh cheer from the crowd rose as the gown was ripped from her shoulders. Lady Anne was almost dragged off her feet, but the guard pulled her upright and held her. The crowd bayed again like a pack of hounds and began a chant of “Strip! Strip! Strip!”
Lady Anne was left in her underdress, clutching its thin fabric to her chest. Her hands were shaking, and Catherine could see that her fingers were misshapen and broken. At first Catherine didn’t understand why, but then she realized that it was part of the ritual of a traitor’s execution. Those condemned for treason were not allowed to communicate with the king’s loyal subjects and so had their tongues cut out, their lips sewn up. But, as all court ladies in Brigant used hand signs to speak to each other when they were not allowed to use words, Lady Anne had had her hands broken too.
One of the men loosened Lady Anne’s hair, which was long and fine and the palest of yellows. He took a handful and cut it at the nape of her neck. He held the hair and that too went in the casket. Finally she was left near naked, shivering despite the summer sun, the tattered gown almost transparent and clinging to her legs where she had wet herself. It seemed even Lady Anne’s dignity was forfeit to the king.
Turning from Lady Anne, the speaker called to the platform opposite, “What do you say to this traitor?”
Her father, the marquess, a tall, gray-haired man, came forward. He straightened his back and cleared his throat.
“You have betrayed your country and your glorious king. You have betrayed my family and myself, all loyal subjects who have nurtured you and trusted you. You have betrayed my trust and my family’s name. It would have been better if you had not been born. I denounce you and call for your execution as a traitor.”
Catherine looked for Lady Anne’s reaction. She stared back at her father and seemed to stand more upright. In turn, five other male relatives—her two uncles and two cousins and her elder brother, Tarquin, who was close in looks to Ambrose, with the same blond hair—came forward and shouted their denouncements of a similar kind and called at the end for her execution. After each censure the crowd cheered and then went silent for the next person. And after each one Lady Anne seemed to grow in strength and stature. At first Catherine was surprised at this, but she too began to sit taller. The more they demeaned Lady Anne, the more she wanted to show them how strong she was.
The last to step forward was Ambrose. He opened his mouth but no words came out. His brother leaned toward him and spoke. Catherine could read Tarquin’s lips as he said, “Please, Ambrose. You have to do it.”
Ambrose took a breath before saying in a voice that was clear but hardly raised, “You are a traitor to Brigant and the king. I call for your execution.” His brother put his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. Ambrose continued staring at Lady Anne as tears rolled down his cheeks. The crowd didn’t cheer.
Boris said, “I do believe he’s weeping. He’s as weak as a woman.”
However, Lady Anne was not crying. Instead, she made a sign: her hand on her heart, the simple sign of love for Ambrose. Then she turned and her eyes met Catherine’s. Lady Anne moved her right hand up as if to wipe a tear, as her left hand went to her chest. It was a movement so smooth, so disguised, it was hardly noticeable. But Catherine had been reading signs since childhood, and this was one of the first she had learned. It meant “Watch me.” Then Lady Anne made the sign of a kiss with her right hand, while her left swept downward and clenched into what looked like an attempt at a fist. Catherine frowned. A fist held before the groin was the sign of anger, hate, a threat. To pair it with a kiss was strange. Then another sign: “boy.” Lady Anne turned to stare at the king and was making another sign, but the man holding her arm had moved in the way.
Catherine didn’t know Lady Anne; she’d never spoken to her, had seen her in court only once. Catherine was confined to her quarters for so much of her life that seeing other women was hardly more common than seeing and talking to men. Had she imagined the signs?
Lady Anne was brought forward and forced to kneel on a low wooden block. She looked down, and then turned so her eyes met Catherine’s again, and there was no mistaking their intensity. What was she trying to say, at the very moment of her death?
Bradwell, the executioner, was wearing his hood now, but his mouth was still visible, and he said, “Look ahead or I can’t guarantee it’ll be clean.”
Lady Anne turned to face the crowd.
Bradwell raised the sword above his head, and the sunlight bounced off it into Catherine’s eyes. The crowd hushed. Bradwell came a step forward and then to the side, perhaps to assess the angle of his cut, then he went behind Lady Anne, circled the sword in the air over his own head once, took a half step forward, swirled the sword over his head once more, and in a continuous movement made a sideways slice so fast that it appeared for a moment as though nothing had happened.
Lady Anne’s head fell first, hitting the wooden floor with a thud, and then rolled to the edge
of the scaffold. Behind it, blood fanned from the neck of the slowly toppling body. The crowd’s cheer was like a physical blow, and Catherine swayed back on her seat.
Bradwell moved forward, retrieved the head, and held it up by the hair. A chant of “Pike her” went up. Bradwell’s assistant stepped forward with a pike, and the crowd’s frenzy increased further.
Somehow, across the scaffold and the roaring mob, Catherine’s eyes met Ambrose’s. She held his gaze, wanting to comfort him, to tell him she was sorry. She needed him to know that she was not like her father or her brother, that she didn’t choose to be here, that despite the impossible distance between them she cared.
Boris hissed in her ear, “You’re not looking at Lady Anne, sister.”
Catherine turned. Lady Anne’s head was being put on a pike, and there was Noyes standing at the foot of the scaffold, a half-smile on his lips as he turned his attention from her to Ambrose. And Catherine realized she’d been a fool: this wasn’t a punishment, a warning, or a lesson.
It was a trap.
AMBROSE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
“COULDN’T YOU, for once, do as I command?”
It felt like the old days. When Ambrose used to live at home he had a regular summons to his father’s study to be reprimanded about some disobedience or other, and now, two years after he’d left, Ambrose was back standing before his father’s desk. But things were different. The house his father had rented for his visit to the capital wasn’t the usual smart mansion but a shabby villa. His father too seemed worn. His face was sagging slightly and there were more lines around his eyes, and for all his bluster and noise he seemed smaller. And of course there was another significant difference—his sister was now dead, her head on a pike on the city bridge.
“Can you have the decency to answer me, sir!”
