The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  The carts had now arrived at the scaffold, and Beth noticed with a start that the prisoners were standing on their own coffins. The black-clothed minister now began to intone prayers, which the two men joined in, whilst the woman remained resolutely silent, which occasioned disapproving comments from the onlookers, who expected the prisoners to be suitably cowed by the thought that they were about to meet their maker.

  “I thought they would be dirty and ragged,” Beth commented, remembering Alex’s assertion yesterday that prisoners were kept in filthy cells for weeks before being hung.

  “No, for most of these poor souls, it’s their moment of glory,” Angus explained, spitting out a cherry stone. “It’s the only chance they’ll ever get to be something. They wear their best clothes, and some of them give fine speeches too, although I doubt these will. They seem a sorry lot.”

  They did. The two men, although dressed in clothes that Sir Anthony might have worn, were white-faced and trembling, and looked on the point of collapse. The remaining prisoner, on the other hand, though dressed neatly, was not ostentatious, and as Beth watched her, fascinated in spite of herself, the young woman suddenly stamped her feet hard on the wooden floor of the cart. The minister stopped momentarily at the interruption, then continued in a monotonous drone.

  “What’s she doing?” Beth asked.

  “She’s trying to stop the trembling of her legs becoming too noticeable. I’ve seen it before. She has courage, that’s certain,” Sir Anthony replied, his voice soft, admiring.

  The minister now finished, and the three criminals were given the chance to say a few words. The two men declined, clearly beyond speech. They looked utterly terrified, and Beth felt a sharp pang of pity for them, although the crowd, thus deprived of part of their expected entertainment, jeered. More missiles were hurled at the cart. Beth looked away momentarily to compose herself, then, aware of her husband’s scrutiny, raised her eyes again. The hangman was busily tying the hands and ankles of the men, when the woman suddenly stepped forward. The jeers of the crowd quietened.

  “I am innocent,” she began, her voice faltering.

  “That is what they all say,” Sir Anthony murmured in Beth’s ear.

  The woman swallowed and took a couple of deep breaths.

  “I am innocent,” she said again, and her voice rang out this time, across the heads of the crowd. She was greeted with a series of cat-calls, and waited until the noise died down before she continued. “I did not commit the crime for which I am to hang today. But I did commit another crime, which is far more serious than the theft of a diamond ring,” she cried.

  The crowd became quiet now, listening intently. The only sound was the mournful bell of St. Sepulchre’s church, tolling for the imminent deaths.

  “I committed the crime of not allowing Lord Eastwood to take my virginity when his wife was away from home. I committed the crime of telling him that I found him the most repulsive and disgusting man in the country. And I did not wish to catch the French pox from him, which I know for certain he must have, dealing as he does with whores of the lowest sort, which are the only ones who will service him!”

  There was a roar of approval and applause from the onlookers this time, and to Beth’s surprise, several tomatoes, apples and even a cabbage came flying over her head, one barely missing her as it soared into the wealthy spectators behind her. She looked round, her eyes falling on a richly-dressed stout middle-aged man, who, by the apoplectic look on his purple face, had to be Lord Eastwood, just as the white-faced lady sitting by his side was most certainly his wife.

  Beth turned back to the animated features of the girl on the cart, her head flung back, her eyes fixed on her accuser, oblivious to the approval of the crowd. Her heart filled with admiration at the defiance the young woman was showing, who now raised her arm to point at Lord Eastwood. Beth noticed her wrist was raw and infected, chafed by the manacles she must have worn for weeks in Newgate prison.

  “But know this,” the girl said, speaking directly to her accuser. “I will die today, and you will live for many years yet. But when you die, your line dies with you. Your son will perish before you, and your daughter and her baby in childbirth. And you will live to regret what you have done this day.”

  “Holy Mother of God, she has the sight,” Angus whispered in awe, his right hand automatically moving to his forehead to make the sign of the cross. Sir Anthony leaned across hurriedly to prevent him completing the gesture before anyone noticed. The sudden silence of the crowd was ominous, and the hangman, recognising this, moved forward, hurriedly tying the girl’s hands behind her and throwing the noose over her neck. Without any further ado the horses were lashed and the cart moved off, leaving the three occupants suddenly swinging in space.

  The mood was broken, and the crowd roared again, pushing forward to get the best view of the writhing, tormented trio. The girl’s ankles had not been tied and her legs jerked wildly in a horrible parody of a dance. Beth’s stomach heaved, and she felt the acid bile burning the back of her throat. She looked away, tears scalding her eyes.

  “Watch!” came the fierce whisper in her ear. “See what you could come to if you persist in your desire to accompany me.”

  She made a valiant attempt to swallow down the bitter liquid, and raised her head to the rapidly blackening faces of the still jerking bodies. She hardly noticed the men; all her attention became focussed on the girl, so lovely and defiant but a moment ago, now reduced to a disjointed puppet thrashing in an instinctive, futile battle for survival.

  After what seemed an eternity, during which the victims’ struggles grew only slightly feebler, Sir Anthony spoke again.

  “This is the point, my dear, at which those who are to be disembowelled are cut down,” he said pleasantly. “As you can see, they are all still conscious, and aware. Their agony is clear to see on their features.”

  It was, but she hated him for reminding her of it. This was worse than she could ever have imagined. She had thought that there would be a drop when the cart rolled off, ensuring that the prisoners’ necks were broken, and that they only suffered for a few moments. But the bodies had only fallen a very short distance, and were being strangled as slowly as possible. A dark stain spread slowly down the silk-clad legs of the men, and the pungent smell of urine wafted towards the aristocratic spectators in the gallery.

  Bright lights flickered at the edge of her vision, and, recognising the signs, Beth immediately bent over, pushing her head between her knees, regardless of decorum, determined only not to give her husband the satisfaction of seeing her faint. After a few moments the giddiness passed, and she forced herself to straighten up again. A light tap came on her shoulder, and she looked round. A portly lady dressed in taupe silk was watching her with some concern, her kind brown eyes sympathetic.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “It is my wife’s first execution,” Sir Anthony explained. “She has not been in the capital for very long.”

  “No,” Beth said, “I was brought up in the countryside, and have much to learn of the ways of the world.” Her voice seemed to come from a long way away, and she was aware that the danger of fainting had not yet passed.

  The lady bustled about in her reticule, eventually producing a small paper.

  “Here, my dear,” she said kindly. “I find a honey sweet settles the nerves remarkably.” She held out her hand

  How Beth refrained from depositing her breakfast in the lap of the friendly woman at sight of the sticky sweetmeat, she had no idea. Instead she managed to politely decline the offer, and turned round to see with desperation that the three figures were still twitching and jerking, their necks hideously distorted, their faces now completely black, eyes wide open and protruding.

  “How long will this go on?” she asked despairingly.

  “Normally they kick for about twenty minutes or so before they become limp,” her husband replied matter-of-factly. “Of course that does not mean they are dead, only
that they have become too weak to struggle any more. They are usually left for an hour before being cut down. There are several incidences of people surviving even that long. Or longer, in fact. I recall hearing of a lady in Scotland some years ago, who after being cut down, was placed in her coffin and taken for burial by her friends. Luckily they stopped for refreshment on the way, and it was there that they noticed the coffin lid moving! Imagine their surprise when the dead woman sat up! The story has a happy ending, as the lady was revived and lived in perfect health for many more years.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Beth. In all the horror she was witnessing, it was good to hear something positive.

  “That was in Scotland, though,” Angus pointed out cheerfully. “In England she would have been taken and hung again. The laws are different here.”

  “Ah,” said Beth weakly.

  On the way home she was silent. Angus had decided to ride on top of the coach with Iain, the weather being fine, and Sir Anthony didn’t speak, sitting instead in a moody silence more suited to his alter ego. Beth realised that he was allowing time for the dreadful spectacle she had seen today to sink in, to allow the full horror to become indelibly imprinted on her mind.

  As she had watched the bodies slowly cease twitching and become limp, she had at first agreed with him. She could not bear to die like that, in such agony, in front of a howling crowd. She had been shocked at how quickly the mood of the mob had changed, from derision to approval, to hatred and fear when they had believed the woman to be a witch. It was horrible and barbaric, and she had to admit her husband was right; it was impossible to comprehend the true agony and degradation of such a death without witnessing it first-hand.

  And yet to have the chance to be part of a movement to restore a rightful and worthy king to the throne! To be able to worship freely as she wished, without having to skulk down back alleys to abandoned buildings. In short, to have the same freedom of worship as the Anglicans, who were forever spouting about the religious intolerance of Rome, whilst practising the very intolerance they supposedly abhorred. To meet King James, and his son, and to know that you had done something worthwhile with your life, had fought for a cause you believed in, instead of skulking like a coward in the country!

  They arrived home, and Beth ascended the steps, her mind in turmoil, hardly noticing as Sir Anthony leapt nimbly up the stairs to transform himself back into Alex, whilst Angus gently relieved her of her cloak before leading her to the salon, where she sank down into a chair. He left her then, and went down to the kitchen, where he spooned tea into a pot, whilst telling Maggie and Iain of his certainty that Alex’s plan had worked, and Beth would not be going to Europe.

  “The puir wee lassie’s in shock,” he said. “It’s a shame to see her so. I’ve come to really like her. I thought she had the makings of one of us. But maybe it’s for the best.”

  “Aye,” replied Iain. “It’s different for us, after all. We’ve really got nothing to lose, and a great deal to gain. Whereas she’s got the chance to live a nice quiet life.”

  “I wouldna want a nice quiet life,” said Angus. “It seems attractive sometimes, but it’d be awfu’ tedious, I’m thinking.”

  “That’s because ye’ve never had a quiet day in your life,” Maggie said, pouring hot water onto the tealeaves. “And are not likely to either, while your name’s MacGregor. There’s a lot to be said for a peaceful existence, I’m sure. Now sit ye down, laddie, and I’ll take the tea up.”

  “You’re looking a wee bit pale yourself,” Iain commented when Maggie had left the room. “Did the hanging upset you too?”

  “Christ, no. What d’ye take me for?” Angus retorted. “No, it wasna the hangings as such. One of them was a lassie, though, and she had the sight.” He crossed himself, no longer restricted by being in public view and commenced to tell Iain about the woman’s prophecies, which being a Highlander, he found far more disturbing than any number of brutal deaths.

  “Well, I’m assuming ye’ve now had time to think again, lassie.” Alex’s soft voice was the first thing to greet Maggie as she silently opened the salon door. She hadn’t expected him to have changed so quickly and had thought Beth would still be alone. His voice was so full of concern and tenderness that she felt as though she was intruding on a very private moment. She hesitated on the threshold, undecided.

  “Yes, I have. You were right. I hadn’t thought things through properly,” Beth replied.

  Alex sat down next to her on the sofa.

  “I hope you’re no’ angry with me,” he said gently. “I ken it was a dreadful experience for ye. I didna mean to be cruel, but I thought it for the best.”

  “I’m not angry with you, Alex,” she said, speaking his name for the first time. “I understand entirely why you took me to the hangings. It was the right thing to do. I can see everything clearly now. I was far too blasé about the whole situation before.”

  Alex took a deep, relieved breath.

  “You canna know how pleased I am to hear that,” he said, taking her hand in his.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I realise now that if I am to play my part convincingly, I cannot work out what kind of a wife I should be to Sir Anthony by myself. We need to discuss it together in depth, and I need you to help me practice my role as well. And as we only have three days before we leave for Dover, we had better start straight away.”

  Maggie edged quietly out of the door, taking care not to make any noise, and stole back to the kitchen.

  Iain and Angus looked up as she entered, puzzled by the fact that she still carried the tea tray.

  “What’s amiss?” Iain asked.

  “I think,” said Maggie, dumping the tray on the table with a clatter, “that Alexander MacGregor has just met his match.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Once Alex had realised that his pig-headed and determined wife was not going to be dissuaded from accompanying him to Europe, no matter what he did, he resigned himself to the situation without further objection, and the next three days were set aside as Beth had suggested, to prepare her for the role she was to play.

  “The best way to approach this is to think about what our acquaintances will expect our marriage to be like, and then to give them what they want. That will arouse the least suspicion,” Alex said from his supine position on the library sofa. Decorated in warm shades of red and gold, this was the most comfortable room in the house, and as it was quite small, the owner not possessing a great predilection for books, the warmest too. It was the ideal place for them to closet themselves in order to discuss matters.

  “I think my family are expecting the marriage to be a disaster,” Beth replied. “Although now I’m off their hands, I don’t think Edward and Richard could care less whether we’re blissfully happy or at each other’s throats from the first day.”

  “They may not care, but the rest of society will. Their whole lives revolve around gossip and little else, the women especially, and they’ll be avidly watching us to see how we fare. Especially after our performance the other night.”

  “Yes, but we’re going to be in Europe for the next few weeks. We could easily have become madly infatuated with each other by the time we return, if we wanted. And I did tell Isabella and Clarissa that we were reconciled.”

  Alex stretched his long legs, laced his fingers behind his head and contemplated the ceiling for a minute, deep in thought.

  “No, it wouldna work,” he said finally. “We’re too different. We couldna suddenly become a loving couple. No one would believe it. People would become curious, trying to find out what we were hiding, and that’s just what we dinna want. We should give people what they’re expecting, and if they think we’re no’ hiding anything, they’ll no’ look beneath the surface.”

  Beth could not dispute the logic of this.

  “Very well, then, what sort of wife do you suggest I be?” she asked.

  Alex unlaced his hands and sat up.

  “When you thought you were ma
rried to Sir Anthony, how did ye think the marriage would turn out?” he said.

  “Not very well,” she admitted. “I couldn’t stand your posturing and irritating gestures. I thought you could be malicious and superficial, and I found you physically repulsive.” She stopped suddenly, embarrassed. The last words had slipped out without her thinking.

  “Is that why ye recoiled so badly from me on our wedding night?” Alex asked softly. He didn’t seem offended by her words.

  “No. I told you, I’ve had an unpleasant experience. I wouldn’t lie about that. But it didn’t help that I thought the man I was in bed with was hideously disfigured by smallpox.”

  Alex laughed.

  “So ye really believed that?” He grinned.

  “Everyone believes that,” Beth retorted defensively. “Why else would you wear such a heavy layer of paint?”

  “Why indeed? I was hoping that’s what people would think, but I wasna sure they did. Excellent!” He smiled warmly at her, and her heart turned a little somersault. She was certain he wanted their public marriage to be a disaster, and she was not sure she could carry this off, becoming, as she was, more attracted to him by the minute.

  His next words confirmed her worst fears.

  “I’m thinking that the only convincing way we can do this is for Sir Anthony to carry on as he is – he has to, really - and for you to start by trying to make the best of the situation, as you did when you first moved to London, and then quite quickly to become bored and contemptuous of the feeble excuse for a man you’re wedded to.” His eyes were distant now, as he contemplated their future relationship. “Aye, that could work out well. We’ll be able to move in different circles, too, which will give us the chance to pick up more information. Yet we’ll also have to do things together to try to prove that our marriage is working.” His eyes refocused on the present, and he looked across at her. “I didna anticipate you coming with me, ye ken, but I think it can work. We can always improvise as we go along. It’s the nature of relationships to change with time.”