The Bastard, page 5
9
I’d never been one to sob out loud in public. Never had any reason to. But I was so full of rage, frustration, and hate for Rolf, fear and grief for myself, and sorrow at the complete waste my life seemed to have become that I had no other outlet.
And my anger remained with me, even though I had stopped raving. I wanted to beat Rolf to a pulp. Wanted to scream at him, the King, and everyone else I felt was to blame for my position.
At the same time, I truly understood the truth in Rolf’s words.
I was a follower. A vain nothing in the scheme of things. Just a two-copper loser who’d never really taken responsibility for his own life.
And now, it looked as if that life was over.
I howled curses at Rolf, the world, and even myself, clutching my bruised and bloodied hands to my chest as I rocked back and forth. Yes, I was a complete and utter idiot.
For the most part, the other prisoners ignored me—not that I cared what they thought—with one exception. The old man didn’t say much, but he stayed nearby, and when anyone grew tired of my ravings and said something, he threw a torrent of curses their way until they left me alone.
I didn’t know why the old man bothered. Didn’t think to ask him, but even in the depths of my despair, a small part of me was grateful.
Yet even anguish doesn’t last forever. With my throat ragged from shouting and the muscles in my face starting to ache from the workout I’d given them, I found my friend the rat dragon had climbed up on my lap and was nuzzling me under my chin as if trying to comfort me.
It was such an incongruous, unusual sight that I had no option. Instead of hurling abuse at Rolf and his cronies, I laughed at the miniature dragon’s antics.
Suddenly, the world didn’t quite seem so gloomy. I scratched my scaly friend under the chin.
“Thanks for that, little one,” I said. “Sorry about the noise. I’ll be quiet from now on. Promise.”
The old man grunted.
“The guards fed us again while you were indulging your grief,” he said. “More hard ends, like before. But this time, they handed out bowls of gruel through the bars. I saved you some, if you want. Can’t say there’s much point in keeping your strength up, but figure there’s less in dying hungry. Am I right?”
I managed to muster a smile for the small act of kindness and accepted the bowl of gruel and knob of stale bread. In my life as a street urchin, I’d survived on far worse than that, but I couldn’t help think of the fat, juicy pear I had stolen before my life had turned to hell.
I wondered if I would get the chance to taste anything so sweet again and had to admit that I probably wouldn’t.
The old man seemed to be in a mood for talking. “So, tomorrow is the day we die,” he said as I offered a piece of stale bread to my rat dragon. He sniffed at it but declined to partake.
“So it would seem,” I agreed.
“Got any regrets?” he asked.
I thought about it and gave him a nod. “One or two,” I said.
The old man looked at me with surprising compassion. “Figured as much. Me, I’ve lived my life. Sure, given the chance, might make different choices. Try to get laid a bit more. And maybe I’d think twice before crossing his Lordship what put me in this place. But mostly, I’ve had a pretty good run.”
I looked at the old man and decided that he was simply telling the truth as he saw it. He seemed surprisingly relaxed, as if he’d accepted his fate. And I figured that was probably a good place to be.
I sighed. “I wouldn’t mind putting some of what that bastard Rolf said into practice. Wouldn’t mind living a bit longer, if I could do it under my own terms, rather than just following along.”
The old man laughed quietly. “Well, don’t say it means a great deal, considering what’s waiting for us on the morrow. But I hope you get the chance to.”
I made a dismissive noise and gestured at the stone walls and the bars. “It would take some kind of miracle,” I said.
The old man agreed and once more dropped into companionable silence. But I was left thinking. Maybe it didn’t take a miracle. Maybe just a small piece of magic.
The type of magic contained within the amulet that hung around my neck.
Despite everything, I felt buoyed at the thought. The amulet had been part of me for so long that I’d mostly forgotten its original purpose. Mostly, I just rubbed it for luck at the start of a job.
I snorted out loud. It hadn’t done me any good this time. I must have used all that luck up, if it had ever done anything at all. Because this last job, this kidnapping gig–the only luck that had come my way was bad.
But that’s not what the amulet was for. What had the woman who had given it to me said? Snap it in two and hope for the best?
Why not? I wondered. Probably more bullshit, a story to entertain a young boy and no more. But what could it hurt to give it a try?
I waited until the other prisoners had settled down for the night. Men found whatever space they could to lie down and filled the air with their snores, farts, and belches as one by one they dropped off to sleep.
There were those who stayed sitting, watchful, either fearful that someone might hurt them or looking for victims even in their last hours.
And me. Waiting for the chance to be unobserved.
Finally, with the old man resting against the back wall, smacking his gums in his sleep and fidgeting, I figured it was time.
I took my amulet out from where it rested against my chest and untied the strip of leather that held it in place. The cell was lit only by the torches outside, where Rolf had stood taunting me, but it was still bright enough to see.
In the dim light of the cell, it looked like little more than a smooth disc of wood, and I couldn’t even make out the faint pattern that had almost worn off. I took a deep breath and breathed quietly.
“If there is any magic in you at all,” I said to the disc, “then I need it now. Get me out of this mess, if you can. Save my life. I don’t want to die.”
With that, I bent the disc in half, ignoring the pain in my fingers. It proved to be surprisingly flexible, and for a moment, I feared it would I wouldn’t be able to break it. Then, it snapped in two, the noise of it echoing throughout the entire cell, sounding surprisingly loud.
I imagined that a small puff of green magic curled up from the broken amulet, like a puff of smoke from my pet rat dragon. And then it was gone, leaving me feeling empty, more alone, and more defeated than before. The two pieces of the amulet crumbled in my fingers, becoming nothing but dust.
I wasn’t magically whisked out of the cell. A King’s guard failed to appear with a pardon. I didn’t fall backwards through a wall that was suddenly not solid.
Of all the countless myriad ways the amulet could have magicked me free, it did precisely none of them at all.
I uttered a heartfelt sigh and cursed my too trusting nature. So much for the word of a beautiful woman I could barely remember.
So thinking, I muttered one more curse at the world in general and settled myself down to sleep, with the rat dragon curled up in my lap.
10
It wasn’t a pleasant night. I was pretty good at sleeping in unfamiliar places, but this was different. The cold, filthy floor of the cell and the hard, lumpy stone wall were a far cry from the soft beds and willing company of my regular sleeping habits. And a lifetime of sleeping with one ear open in case a jealous boyfriend or husband should happen along meant that I flinched awake at every unconscious snort or half-asleep grunt uttered by the other prisoners.
On top of that, every so often, one of the guards would stand up and move around, perhaps just to keep themselves awake. There was the sound of water dripping from somewhere, a steady, rhythmic sound that most seemed able to ignore, but which drove me to distraction.
And then there was the occasional cry of whatever monster the King kept in the palace dungeons. A metal-rending shriek filled with anger and pain.
It wasn’t a regular sound. Maybe once, twice an hour or so. And it was distant, not loud enough to be heard over the bustle of daylight. But at night, everyone in the city could hear it, and it was louder the closer you were to the castle.
Nobody knew for sure what made the sounds, but everyone had a theory.
The most common one was that the King kept a live, full-grown dragon somewhere deep underground.
As theories went, it wasn’t a bad one. The sheer volume of the cries suggested a creature of power. And what other great beast would a King seek to keep?
Especially a King like this one, with a family history full of stories of such magnificent beasts. The word dragon even formed part of the King’s surname.
The naysayers, those who discounted the theory, would point out that no true dragon had been sighted in the area for decades. Wyverns, sure. And rat dragons, of course. There were even smallish sea serpents in the slow-moving currents of the river. But a real, live dragon?
The last time anyone had caught a glimpse of one was when the King’s grandfather still lived. Back then, the Pendragon line could transform into dragons at will.
That talent had faded as the bloodline grew older, until now, when all that remained was the King’s last name.
Pendragon.
I shifted against the stone wall, once again trying to find some sort of comfort in the miserable place. But the hard, unyielding walls combined with the sounds–and the stench!–made sleep all but impossible.
For me, at least. My rat dragon had no trouble. He was producing small snores in time with his breathing.
That he’d accepted me as a friend was almost enough to bring a smile to my face even in this godawful place. I didn’t even care if the rat dragon’s true motivation was no more than to seek warmth. It was enough to simply have him nuzzle against me.
I started to wonder if my last night alive would be an ongoing torture, an endless sequence of hours where I stayed awake. But finally, long after the night bellringer had announced two o’clock in the morning, I finally drifted off.
When I dreamed, I dreamt of dragons—massive, powerful, beautiful creatures flying effortlessly above the city, with a gaggle of rat dragons doing their best to keep up.
11
The day of my hanging, and it was raining. My last day on this earth, and I had to stand with all the others who were to be hanged in a steady, persistent drizzle that had already soaked through my tunic and breeches, leaving me miserable and shivering. Even worse, the earth beneath my feet was nothing but mud, which wedged between my bare toes in a very unpleasant manner.
It was almost enough to make me want to get it over with. To stand on the gallows, if only for a moment, and then say goodbye to it all.
It was the sort of miserable, soul-sucking day that ought to have kept the townsfolk inside. Including me.
But this was the day for hangings. A day when all the convicted murderers, kidnappers, and unrepentant career criminals who had been gathered over the past several weeks would meet their fate.
And that meant it was a day of celebration.
Despite the weather, there was a sense of excitement that spread over the crowd. More than a thousand people had gathered in the square outside the castle to watch the proceedings. Men, women, and children all braved the rain with smiles on their faces, and more turned up with each passing minute.
As well as the watchers, there were street vendors selling sweetmeats, candied apples, cinnamon buns and the like, as well as half rotten fruit and vegetables for people to throw.
Keeping an eye on it all was a virtual army of Blackcoats, an intimidating presence designed to discourage any last-minute dash for freedom.
Despite the horrible weather, it seemed that everyone there was enjoying themselves.
Everyone except for the line of prisoners to be hanged.
There were maybe twenty of us standing with our hands bound and a rope tethering us all together. For the most part, we were men, but there was a woman or two for good measure.
Most of us were silent, either accepting our fate or simply acknowledging that there was nothing more we could do. But some muttered curses or prayed or whimpered out loud.
I followed the old man who had showed me kindness in my moment of need, and while he’d seemed willing to accept his fate then, now he seemed quieter, more contemplative as we stood in the wet.
I was feeling a little maudlin myself. But at least I had company. My rat dragon had chosen to accompany me out into the rain and was even now curled up on my shoulder.
On a whim, I dubbed him Sir George and promised myself that if by some miracle I lived out the day, I would keep him as a real pet.
That promise, however, looked increasingly empty. One by one, the men and woman to be hanged climbed the stairs to the gallows. The King’s Justice, a small round man with a sonorous voice and rich clothing, would announce the prisoners’ specific crimes, while doing everything he could to make a spectacle, to build the audience’s enthusiasm.
If the crimes noted were particularly heinous, the prisoner would be pelted with rotten fruit, or even just handfuls of mud taken from the wet, sodden ground.
“Errol Hatcher!” the King’s Justice announced. “Found guilty of murder most foul! Mr. Hatcher stabbed his wife’s lover more than thirty times until death, as well as slicing off the man’s cock and balls! He then fed those same organs to his unfaithful wife before stabbing her in the heart and cutting her throat. For this crime, Errol Hatcher has been sentenced to death by hanging! What say you, good townsfolk? Is the sentence just? Or should Errol’s punishment include a little humiliation as well?”
The audience responded with a smattering of laughter, and a few handfuls of mud and rotten vegetables sailed toward Errol Hatcher.
A thin, sad-looking man with water dripping off his hooked nose, Errol didn’t try to duck or dodge. He seemed to have lost the spark of life already, probably taken from him when he had walked in on his wife.
The aim of the crowd was comparatively poor. Sad Errol ended up with a trace of mud on his shoulder and part of a tomato glancing from his hip. But that was all, and the crowd seemed to be waiting for a more fitting target.
“Errol Hatcher, your fate is sealed. Step back over the trapdoor, if you would be so kind.”
As if on automatic, poor Errol did as he was asked, and the hangman, a large, brutish man with his head hidden beneath a black hood, placed the noose over his head and tightened it so the knot lined up against his left ear.
Like a conductor at a circus, the King’s Justice addressed the crowd once again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, these are Errol Hatcher’s final moments. Are you ready to witness his death by hanging?”
As one, the audience roared their approval.
The King’s Justice didn’t need to say anything more. The audience reaction was plenty. The hangman stepped to the release lever, and without further ado, let poor Errol fall.
The whole crowd heard the singular snap as Errol’s body jerked to a halt at the end of the rope. It was a sickening sound, that of a neck breaking, but the audience approved. As one, they burst into applause, whooping and yelling as Errol’s body twitched at the end of the rope.
It kept going for more than a minute before fading, at which time, the men down below got to work.
They were quick and efficient, removing the noose and adding Errol’s body to a growing pile on a cart.
And then it was the turn of the next man in line.
12
One by one, the line of those waiting to be hanged grew shorter. William Dafanay followed Errol Hatcher, who was in turn followed by Oliver Butters, Seth Wind Gibbins, Eric Jacobsen, and more.
Sometimes the process changed just a little. Sometimes the King’s Justice gave the condemned the option of addressing the crowd, and they would beg, or whimper, or stand resolute. And once, a short, fat man the King’s Justice addressed as Sully Turnbull tried to make a dash for it from the top of the gallows.
The man had seemed calm when the executioner approached with the rope, but at the last minute, he struck out with his elbow, catching the executioner square in the throat. Somehow, Sully had slipped his hands from his bindings, and he tried to charge down the steps, only to find his way blocked by two Blackcoats bearing knob-ended clubs.
Sully cursed out loud, and to the crowd’s roar of approval, hurled himself from the platform down to the mud.
He landed badly and didn’t get up. Instead, he howled in pain from where he lay, and the crowd laughed at his discomfort.
As the Blackcoats helped him back up the stairs, it became clear that he’d broken at least one of his legs in the fall. Yet the hanging continued, with a Blackcoat propping him up on each side until the trapdoor opened beneath his feet.
And so despite his efforts, Sully’s corpse joined the others on the back of the wagon.
At some point during the show, I found myself looking into the crowd, for no reason other than simple curiosity.
They were just people. Bakers, merchants, wagon drivers, tavern keepers, and more. There were even a few of the King’s messengers, boys and girls in their early teens, wearing the King’s gold and satchels on their hips. And street urchins, of course, homeless children working the crowd, maybe picking pockets or just enjoying the show.
For all I knew, the boy I’d asked to steal Anwen’s coin pouch, Samuel, might be among them.
And maybe Rolf was there, too. Durstan and Bryce, performing their duties as Blackcoats or just watching the show, eager to see me fall through the trap with a rope around my neck.
If they were, I didn’t see them. They could have been watching from the castle if they wanted–and not just them either. The gallows had been positioned so that the King himself could watch if he chose, and even now, he might have been in his staterooms doing exactly that.
