The 9th Jan 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
We stand in the inner sanctum; five of us, still as a portrait in history. The King's sovereign lies heavy in my pocket. It burns through the cloth and scorches my skin. I carry the dreadful smell of death upon my breath. Every fibre of my being is insulted by my deeds of this day to come.
She is a young thing,fragrant and alone. Her voice quavers in whispered Latin well beyond my comprehension,but I seem to understand every word as she prays for redemption and release from the evils of this world.
Does this make me evil? I have never considered this before. From the most common thief and adulterer, to Lords of this land, they have humbled themselves before me like pigs to the swineherd's blade. Their curses and pleas fell on my death ears. Did I say death ears?
Her lady-in-waiting sobs the tears of a young widow. I cannot meet her eyes. Maybe it is the silence of the room that affects me. Today there is not the usual hubbub of the Tower or Newgate. No smell of roasting meat,or the jostling and jeers of the crowd,of vendors pursuing their trade, of pickpockets earning their living. Am I not better than them. If not me,then someone. Justice or construed justice must seem to be done.
Oh poor poor girl. So lovely so innocent. Just sixteen years on this earth. Her long flowing virgin white gown gilded with Belgium lace will soon be sullied beyond recognition. The priest whispers gently in her ear,"oh pray for me holy man." If prayers could be answered I would fly from this room,I would use my axe for felling trees, not.. not this.
My thumb runs down my blade,my God it needs to be sharper than this. I have not prepared, my strength is all that can protect her from a worse death than she now imagines. I may take her head but I wish her no harm.
For a few days this girl was my Queen and through no fault she shares this miserable space with me. Dank stone walls which drizzle with death. Cold cobbled floor strewn with old straw dragged from the nearby stables. The dull smell of horse's dung overpowers my Lady's perfumes. Her death is mine. I need to keep busy
“Excuse me Ma'am.” I cover my mouth so the strong onion smell of my breath does not disturb her. I need to check the block is stable and truly balanced. This room was not designed for such use as this, and I probe the room for a spot where the oak will stand still. Her pale white skin looks aged and weary. Her bottom teeth chew at her lips. She says something I do not understand. Her lady-in-waiting misses nothing.
“Can my Lady have a sip of water?” It seems such nonsense. Does it really matter whether her throat is parched or not?She is to lose her head for God's sake.
She is younger than my eldest child, who is already with child, and may even now be a mother. They would have gladly changed roles a year ago. How strange this life is.
I am not prepared to endure this hell of suspense any longer. It is time. The priest makes the sign of the cross. I take her arm with a firm hand,and lead her to the block and guide her knees to the floor. I kneel in front of her and place her white throbbing throat on its last resting place. With every last ounce of strength I have in my body I bring my axe down. It removes her head with no difficulty. I call the guard and leave the room.
My steps through London blur. I need the comfort of family and find myself at my daughter's lodgings. Her husband greets me at their door. He scowls and says.
“We have a daughter.”I climb the stairs with heavy limbs to see my daughter and new grandchild. They are both beautiful.
“We shall call her Jane.” I say smiling at my daughter, and the new life in my arms.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.