by April Taylor
As soon as he passed through the west gate, Luke sensed an increased tension in the air and determined to find Will, explain the problem and leave as quickly as he could. Luke breathed a sigh of relief when he caught his friend’s eye and Will stood up and came to meet him. In a low voice, Luke explained the reason for his visit.
Will shook his head. “Not a wise move, my friend. It would be better for all, including his mother, if he were forgotten.”
“Aye, I know that, but a promise is a promise. What should I do?”
Will held out his hand. “I haven’t made any promises. Give it to me. I’ll ask, but I don’t hold out any hope. God’s death, Luke, he’s a convicted traitor.”
“The poor creature suffers, Will. I couldn’t say no.”
Will looked at his hands, sighed and changed the subject. “I am worried about Father, Luke.”
“Corbin?” For a moment Luke was shaken out of his preoccupation with the approaching execution. “We seem to have lost the habit of seeing each other. Is he unwell?”
Will hesitated. “I’m not sure. He seems absentminded and anxious lately. I have asked if all is well and he assures me that it is, but you know he and I have never been close.”
Luke thought that a promise to go and see the man who was still his mentor, but now also his friend, was a small price to pay for Will’s assurance that he would try to get the tunic to Gethin. “I will go and see him, but it will have to wait until after the execution.”
“Thank you, Luke. I am sure there is something amiss, but I have no idea what it is. He might confide in you.”
That evening, Luke set Pippa to learn more words and practice her centralization. Whilst she strained to make even one frond of the feather flicker, he worked in the shop, mixing his ingredients in the brazen mortar. He knew he had the mix right when the pestle struck sparks. He added some viscous yellow liquid from a flask, muttered an incantation and soaked the two pieces of Gethin’s tunic in it. He had done all he could for the moment.
Warning Pippa that they had an early start the following morning, Luke tried to sleep, but when they climbed aboard the baker’s cart, both were heavy-eyed with fatigue. Twelvetrees cast knowing looks at them, grinning to himself, and Luke flashed with anger at the implication that he and Pippa had spent the night playing the two-backed beast.
Twelvetrees had the grace to look abashed, but was never one to buckle under to anyone. He pointed at Joss.
“Keep that wretched mongrel off my wares.” Joss curled up in a tight ball under Luke’s feet.
The journey to Tyburn was long and tedious. For the first two hours, Luke slept, leaving Pippa to deflect the baker’s pointed questions. As they approached across the parkland to the village, Luke woke and became aware of the holiday atmosphere. His lips tightened and his teeth clenched. Ravening wolves, all of them. Intent on enjoying every second of one boy’s terror and horrific death. If he could have struck them all dead at that moment, he would have done so, and the garrulous baker would have been the first.
They jumped down from the cart and watched Twelvetrees jostle for a good position near the pie-sellers and ale-merchants. Turning on his heel, Luke pulled Pippa after him. The main spectacle was not due to begin for several hours, but it was imperative that they had a place at the front of the crowd near the platform on which the gallows had been erected.
Pippa grew bored, continually wanting to wander away and look at the crowd. At first, she was obedient to his brusque reprimands, but eventually he had to take her by the arm and bend his head close to hers, looking deep into her muddy green eyes.
“I need you here. I need your help, your energy and your concentration. Stay here.”
“Help with what?” She was frowning now.
“I am going to need you to focus on me when I tell you to. I need every ounce of your strength. This is a time for work, not for play.” He knew his expression brooked no argument.
She swallowed. “What do you need me to do?”
“When I nudge you with my elbow, you must centralize your strength and send it to me.”
“Why?”
“There is no time for questions. You will see.”
A growing tumult alerted them. Luke seized her arm.
“Hush. He is coming. Prepare yourself.”
Chapter Five
The day of the execution was sunny and warm. The hangman and one of the guards bundled him into the cart and onto the stool.
“You got a nice day for it,” the hangman said, before putting the noose around Gethin’s neck and coiling the rest of the rope round his waist. “Most likely get a good crowd on a day like this.”
A guard tied him to the stool, an unnecessary precaution under the circumstances. Sir Anthony had told the truth when he had said that Gethin would be unable to stand. The interrogations had been severe, which was a pity, because they had been completely unproductive. The preservation of the King’s life, however, left no room for sentiment, as Sir Anthony along with everyone else well knew.
Gethin’s body was a mass of cuts, bruises and branding marks. His teeth had been broken with pincers. He would never have believed that a body could suffer so much and still be living. The chafing of the rope was as nothing compared to the agony he endured from snapped sinews and cracked bones. So much torment. The knowledge of his innocence had been both a help and a hindrance. A hindrance because it had taken him days to realize that nothing he said would be believed. A help because he knew when he stood at the gates of Heaven, he would be enfolded in loving arms.
In addition to two guards, a chaplain and the hangman accompanied him in the cart. Gethin knew that there would not be the respite of a bribe to ease his path to death and that he would suffer yet more before the end. He clung to the knowledge that soon, soon, all would be over. He would be at peace. His only thought was that he must meet the final act of his life with courage. It was this determination to prove to the watching crowd that he was a man that kept his head up and looking ahead. The voice of the chaplain intoning endless prayers had seemed loud at first, but the closer they drew to Tyburn, the bigger and noisier the crowd became. Gethin was glad, for it drowned out the monotonous droning of the cleric. The spectators mocked him and he concentrated on staring above their heads with a fixed gaze and unmoving expression. Two things changed that. The first was the sight of the gallows. The people nearest the cart saw his involuntary swallow and set up a relentless jeering. Then, for the first time in over two days, tears sprang to Gethin’s eyes. He had just seen his mother.
* * *
Gethin Pitt’s execution was Pippa’s first experience of a hanging. She had seen gibbets in Norfolk, of course, preferring to slide her gaze past the victim, especially if the poor soul had been left to rot, as often happened. She was more familiar with the smell of a decomposing corpse being picked clean by carrion crows. The prospect of watching a living person die filled her with dread. She knew that Luke had some plan to rescue Gethin but she had no idea what it was, only that he needed her to be focused. But centralizing was nigh impossible when at the first sight of the poor boy in the cart, the crowd surged forward, almost knocking her off her feet. Had it not been for Luke keeping a tight grip on her arm, she would have fallen and been trampled. She looked down to see that Joss seemed to have created a small space around herself, clear of any intrusion, regardless of the press of the mob. Pippa was not so fortunate. The warmth of bodies pressed close about her and the sour smell of unwashed humanity blended with her apprehension to make her stomach heave.
When everyone saw that Gethin was seated, a sigh of what she surmised to be gratification swept through the crowd.
“Why is he sat down?” she asked.
It was the large pockmarked man next to her who replied. “Can’t stand up, girl. Been racked, see. It’ll be a treat to see ’em get �
��im up the ladder.”
Pippa wished she had not asked. The rack. She had a sudden clear vision of broken limbs and cries of pain and terror. Pain she knew would never go away.
The pockmarked man, who seemed to have appointed himself her personal guide, nudged her arm. “So’s we can see the fitting end to a traitor,” he said, nodding and grinning. Pippa bunched her fists and had to force herself not to use every ounce of her strength to wipe the gloating anticipation from his face. “See the table and the axe ’n that?” the man continued. “That’s for when they take ’is innards out and burn ’em on the fire.”
Pippa shot a glance at Luke, who was staring intently at the gallows. Though he didn’t turn, he seemed to sense her fear. With a swift gesture, he pulled her across in front of him and to his other side away from Pockface. At the same time, Joss moved to where Pippa had stood and the man patted her head, appearing to forget about the girl. Luke never took his eyes off the scene in front, and Pippa followed his gaze.
They dragged Gethin up the steps, his hands tied in front of him. Pockface had been right. He was unable to walk. At these close quarters, Pippa could see his face, bruised and bloody. His eyes had disappeared into two black swollen mounds on either side of what had been his nose. She stood, transfixed, gazing at him and thought that until a week ago, Gethin Pitt would probably have set more than a few female hearts fluttering.
Luke’s voice muttered in her ear. “I shall need you soon.”
“Can I close my eyes?”
“Better not. Might be misinterpreted.”
At that moment, a desperate scream sounded and Gethin’s face whipped round. His mangled speech confirmed his injuries as nothing else could, but Pippa understood his words.
“Don’t cry, dearest Mother. I am innocent. God himself knows it.”
Goodwife Pitt tried to climb up the steps, stretching out her arms to reach her boy, but two of the guards knocked her off into the crowd. There was a rise in the hubbub as several neighbors tried to hurry her away from the scene. Everyone could hear her wailing even though she had thrown her apron over her face. Pippa’s heart contracted in pity and she tasted the blood from her bitten lip. After that one glance at Gethin’s face, she knew she would see him in nightmares for weeks to come. She looked around, not wanting to watch a terrified thirteen-year-old about to face everybody’s worst fear.
The windows of all the buildings surrounding the gallows were packed with expectant faces. The baker had told her that everyone hanging out of the upper windows would have paid for the privilege. Pippa felt a frisson of fear as she realized the power of a mob. She did not want to watch what was happening on the platform. She looked across Luke at Joss. Joss held her gaze and the tumult in her mind eased a little.
Gethin was slumped between the two guards. Pippa saw the instant his eyes focused on the huge knife and axe speared into the table.
“Never you worry, lad,” the hangman taunted. “I’ll make a nice job of it. They’ll be singing songs about you in the taverns tonight.”
Pippa watched the hangman unwind the rope from Gethin’s waist, steadying himself to sling it over the top of the gallows and catch the loose end. Then the guards began dragging and pushing the boy up the ladder. Her attention was distracted by a great cry from the crowd as the guards finished their work and prepared to pull the rope tight. Tears ran down her face, but she dare not bring attention to herself by wiping them away.
Next to her, Luke stood immobile, as if unaware of the crowd hemming him in on all sides. Glancing down she saw his hands moving in his sleeves, whilst his blue eyes remained fixed on Gethin Pitt’s face. She followed his gaze. Part of her mind wondered if the boy just wanted to get it all over with or whether he was clinging to every last second of life. The hangman continued to gloat, telling the boy he would soon be doing the “Tyburn jig.” The chaplain urged repentance even as the hangman tossed the rope over the bar. Unable to stop herself trembling, Pippa caught Joss’s gaze again. It was as if a blanket of calm wafted over her. Luke began to whisper and then nudged Pippa.
“Now. Now.”
She took a deep breath and opened her hands, visualizing all her strength as a strong white light that flowed from her deepest insides up to her shoulders, down her arms and out through her fingers into Luke.
* * *
The fabric from Gethin’s tunic, held between the fingers of Luke’s hands, grew warm and then hot. He sent all his concentration into his eyes, staring at Gethin’s terrified face and willing him to look up. He had to fight his way past the fear on the platform and the exulting malice of the crowd and make the boy see him. He knew that this would be the most important magic he had ever conjured and that he must succeed. He could see Gethin stumbling, trying to keep his footing on the ladder, but it would be removed any second now and the hapless victim left dangling. Gethin gazed at the crowd pressing closer to the platform and Luke knew he could hear the collective sigh of pleasure.
Then the moment Luke had prayed for. Gethin looked directly into his eyes. Luke mentally snapped a meld between them so that their minds were fused. What Gethin saw, Luke would see, but he could also guide the boy’s senses.
In an instant, Luke put the picture of two horsemen racing each other into Gethin’s thoughts. Gethin was chasing his best friend, Leland. Leland was on Shadow and Gethin on Jasper. They galloped in bright sunshine, Leland always in front. Shadow sailed over a hedge and Gethin followed, shouting with joyous laughter. He was still laughing as he lost his stirrups. The bump as he hit the ground almost unseated him. Then, all went dark.
A bloody froth began to issue from Gethin’s nose and lips. His body jerked as it went into convulsions. Luke continued to hold the boy’s eyes until they closed. Time was running short. He turned to Pippa and told her to keep centralizing. A few seconds later it was as if a bolt of power flooded through him. He knew he had to hurry because the hangman would not risk bungling his job and letting Gethin die before he cut him down and began his bloody work.
Luke looked at Gethin’s clenched hands. The hangman put the ladder back in place and began to climb it. Luke crumbled the hot material in his fingers and rubbed them together until all he could feel was dust. Gethin’s head dropped to one side, almost as if he had fallen asleep. When the hangman reached him, he looked up into the battered face and swore.
“’E’s croaked it. Died of fright by the look of ’im.”
“Continue your duties,” Luke heard another voice and, looking at the platform, he saw Sir Nigel Kerr, who motioned to the hangman to cut Gethin down and get on with the disemboweling. The crowd, cheated of their spectacle, began to jeer at the carelessness of the bungler who had let a traitor die largely unpunished. Luke bowed his head, utterly spent after his endeavors. He dropped his hand onto Joss’s head and breathed deeply for a few seconds. He looked at Pippa and saw her eyes fixed on the scaffold, just before the stench from the freshly fed fire hit them. Following her gaze, he saw Sir Nigel Kerr holding a handkerchief to his nose.
“So perish all traitors to our noble lord, King Henry IX!” Kerr shouted and the crowd cheered their agreement.
Luke could feel the girl trembling. The depth of her horror and fright billowed across him. He had turned to reassure her when, in seconds, the blue sky turned dark. The sun dropped behind sinister raging clouds. The temperature plummeted. A peal of thunder echoed overhead and large pellets of rain hammered down. The crowd, who had been so intent on their entertainment, was caught unawares. Their attention swung away from the execution scene up to the murky heavens. Some crossed themselves out of habit; others cried out that God was angry and that Gethin must have been innocent.
People began to scurry away, some running so that God might not see that they had been there at all. Luke, also taken by surprise at the sudden downpour, grabbed Pippa’s arm. Their quickest path away from the crowds was pas
t the gory sight of the platform and along a line of trees. As they neared the remains of Gethin Pitt, Luke looked up straight into the eyes of Sir Nigel Kerr, water already dripping off his velvet cap. Rain hammered onto the platform, mixing with the boy’s blood and pouring over the edge in a red torrent. Sir Nigel’s eyebrows rose and he sketched a smile and mocking bow. Luke inclined his head and kept his legs moving, pulling Pippa and Joss in his wake.
As soon as they were some distance from the gallows, the rain ceased and blue skies returned as if God had wiped a cloth over the scene. The sun shone and steam began to rise from both their sodden clothes and the ground. They did not look back. Soon they were well away from the execution site and walking across the parkland, hoping to see the baker on his return trip to Hampton Court. Pippa had not yet uttered a word. Her face was pinched and pale, her lips a thin line, and Luke kept hold of her arm because he feared she would fall if he did not. There was something here he did not understand.
“Strange thing with the suddenness of the thunderstorm,” he said, keeping his voice light.
“Is it?” she asked in a dull voice. “I’ve known storms like that before. Quite a few times.”
Chapter Six
“Have you?”
Luke could see that she was still in shock and in no fit state to talk now. His curiosity must wait. It was a good while before Twelvetrees caught up with them and suggested they hop on. The journey was completed in silence. For once, even the loquacious bread man was disinclined to speak. He must have either made enough money to be content or caught the mood of his companions, Luke thought. When they arrived back at Hampton, Luke helped Pippa down and handed the man some coins.
