by the neck and then removed while still conscious to be drawn, castrated, and finally disemboweled. In consideration to the defense, the burning of entrails and quartering will be waived in favor of a public dissection, performed on his mortal remains in the Caligo University main lecture hall, as a deterrent to the public for the horrid crime of murder.
Disemboweled and castrated! Such punishment was reserved for traitors or those who defiled the royal family. Not even murderers had their tackle lopped off – they were simply and decently hanged. In principle, he believed in giving his intact body to science, but couldn’t bear the thought of medical students recognizing him and laughing at his mangled, emasculated corpse. They’d probably carve off his fingers as keepsakes. He knew one young doctor who liked to show off the ear of Mortimer Stubbs, leader of the Highspits Plot, which he kept preserved in a jar – not for science, but to shock and disgust his colleagues.
This whole bloody affair didn’t make any sense. Only the criminally insane – the kind who would throw their own filth at the barristers – didn’t have a say at their trial. Everyone else had the right to speak in their defense. Twice before he’d stood in the prisoners’ dock to address the magistrate, and both times he’d actually done what he’d been accused of. This time, when he finally had something to say on his own behalf, he had no way to present his case. They had him dead to rights.
The clack-clack of footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Roger threw himself at the door. “Hey! Talk to me man-to-man, you filthy lying bastards!” He shouted his throat hoarse and bruised his fists from pounding. When he stopped to catch his breath, he heard the jailer singing in a spiteful baritone:
When lamps are lit along the street
Beware if you should ever meet
A miscreant named Weathersby
Who murders girls most lustily.
He’ll catch them in a stranglehold –
they say he likes his women cold.
But now he’s caught, his time is through,
And soon, exposed to public view,
His anatomy shall be displayed,
As a lesson for all: laws must be obeyed.
The jailer halted outside Roger’s cell and knocked twice before adding one last impromptu line to his ballad.
No evening gruel
For the Greyanchor ghoul.
Roger slumped against the door. If he’d had any food left in his stomach, he’d have lost it now. His name must have appeared in the criminal broadsheets, featured among Myrcnia’s most gruesome accidents and crimes, and accompanied by a catchy verse and woodcut illustration. They sold for a winkle to morbid-minded carpenters and fishwives, who then spent their day singing “Justice Hoggs was found eaten by dogs” or “Take no gift from Poison Mary, cake or biscuit, peach or plum” set to popular melodies. Just last week, his landlady Mrs Carver had been singing “Poison Mary” while splitting chickens. She’d have seen his name in the broadsheets, maybe even rented out his room after sending for a deacon to purge his garret of evil.
And Ada. She might not read but, with others singing it on the street, she’d overhear soon enough. How monstrous he’d seem, filtered through a criminal’s ballad. Everyone he’d ever known – including a certain princess – would remember him as a strangler and a violator of corpses. It might be simpler to make his shirt into a noose and hang himself. At least then he’d die with his bollocks intact. He got so far as unbuttoning his shirt when his fingers froze. He was alive, and he might still get free. He just needed to convince himself.
Sod it. No one ever escaped from Old Grim.
He lay sprawled on the stone ledge like a corpse on a slab, determined to sleep until he was dead.
The next morning Roger woke to a stale biscuit ricocheting off his forehead. He chipped a tooth biting into the thing and ended up pounding the biscuit to bits using the basin as a millstone. He added water to the crumbs to make a paste, which he licked off his fingers. When he’d finished, he realized the jailer had been watching him all along through the sliding hatch in the door.
“You’ve some visitors,” said the jailer as he entered the cell. He was a thickset man in a long blue coat and official’s cocked hat. By his baritone voice, he’d sung the ballad outside Roger’s cell the day before. He manacled Roger’s wrists together and fed the long chain through a ring on the cell wall. “Right distinguished ones. Mind yourself before the most holy liaisons or you’ll be pressin’ your face to the whipping post, mark my words.”
Roger was made to sit on the floor with his back to the wall. His head throbbed, and any pressure to his left temple sent a knife-stab through his brain. It took a minute for the jailer’s words to make sense.
“Liaisons? Holy?” Most likely the chaplain – well, he could go toast his eyebrows. The church thought a man’s blood held his soul. Surgeons knew better. He spat on his fingers and raked them through his hair, rattling his chains.
“Aye. Come to absolve you of your sins before your guts is slit, I expect. Which reminds me. For ten shellings I’ll procure for you the finest kidney pie as your last meal. Fitting, no?” The jailer grinned. “His grace might spot you the coin, if you remember to ask.”
The jailer set a wooden chair inside the cell door. Footsteps rang in the corridor, and he doffed his hat and bowed.
But this was no chaplain.
Harrod entered the cell, and Roger sat up in shock. It couldn’t be. His brother had traded his dusty traveler’s coat for a pristine uniform with bicorn hat, and had tucked a riding crop under one arm.
“Brother,” Roger gasped. The sight of a familiar face, even one as vexing as Harrod’s, wrung a few humiliating tears from his eyes. Though days ago he’d vowed to pummel him at the earliest opportunity, Roger now felt an overwhelming urge to embrace him, even clasp his knees. The chain proved too short, however. Roger slumped to the ground. In all his imaginings of how he’d spend his final hours, Harrod had never crossed his mind.
“Leave us. I must prepare the prisoner to meet his grace,” Harrod instructed the jailer, who bowed and retreated.
“How did you find me?” Roger spoke to the tops of Harrod’s boots. His brother tapped the riding crop against his shin. “Magic.”
“My fault for asking.”
How typical of Harrod to track him all the way down here. When Roger was a boy, Harrod had always known when and where to catch him red-handed and up to no good. His instincts – or intelligence sources – were uncanny.
Ignoring the chair, Harrod glowered at Roger. “So, I hear you’re a convicted murderer now. Is there any truth to that?”
“I didn’t murder no one. But why should you believe me? No one else does.”
“Oh, I hardly think you capable of the arduous task of murder,” Harrod laughed. “But when a man breaks laws as flagrantly as you do, he gets what’s coming to him.”
“A traitor’s death is what’s coming to me,” Roger moaned.
“I hear the evidence against you couldn’t sway the most merciful judge otherwise. But I know a louse like you can hardly curl his hand into a fist, let alone strangle anyone.”
“If you would just listen. There’s a strangler out there, but he ain’t me. I’m telling you, that poor soul Claudine were buried alive. By Queen Mildred’s knickers, if I’d only found her an hour sooner, none of this would be happening.”
“Found her where? In her grave?” Harrod shot him a furious look. “All this could have been avoided, had you lived the respectable life our mother would have wished.”
Roger winced. “I might deserve to rot in the jug for a good long while, but that don’t change the fact that I never killed no one. If you came here to gloat then you can bugger off, you ass.”
“Enough of your whinging.” Harrod crouched and prodded Roger in the chest with the riding crop. “They won’t hang you. Not yet. Some strings have been pulled, and you’ve been granted a divine intervention.”
Roger could hardly believe his
ears. “I’ve been pardoned?”
“Not exactly. You won’t be gutted or emasculated. Though it comes at a steep price.”
“Don’t take on my debts, Harrod.”
“I have nothing to do with it. You have the princess to thank.” Roger stared. Sibet’s belittling letters had convinced him she’d lost all feeling for him.
A creaky voice interrupted them. “Innocent of heart, pure of charity.” An elderly, clean-shaven gent stood in the doorway, wearing full church robes in white and gold. His tall hat nearly scraped the ceiling. He kissed his fingers and held them up like some cheap actor, muttering invocations beneath his breath. Harrod bowed deeply, as if greeting the queen herself.
“And who’s this?” Roger squinted. The man’s grand posturing was so out of place in this dingy cell, it had to be a cruel joke. “The Almighty Whomever himself, come to bail me out? You’re having me on. There’s no pardon. You toffs paid off the jailer to have a laugh at me.”
“Silence.” Harrod thrashed Roger’s shoulders with the crop. Roger flinched and bit back a yelp. “I won’t stand for your heresy. His grace the honorable Archbishop Tittlebury of Cropspin is present on behalf of her highness, the most merciful Princess Sibylla. I can assure you, no one here is amused.”
Roger pressed his palms into the ground and gathered his thoughts. “That’s truly the bleeding archbishop?”
Archbishop Tittlebury was the designated head of the Myrcnian Church, and officiated over state religious matters on behalf of the queen. Acting as the ruling monarch’s ‘divine conduit’ to the commoners, his position sounded more like some sort of special gutter in which to upend royal chamber pots. As a palace footman, Roger had glimpsed the archbishop at official dinners in full regalia, which he recalled more clearly than the man’s unremarkable face.
Harrod tapped his riding crop against his boot. “That is indeed the archbishop. You will refer to him as ‘your grace,’ and he is here for the sole purpose of saving your neck. Show some respect.”
“Your grace.” Roger sucked in a breath as if he might retroactively silence himself, and bowed his head toward the archbishop. Then he looked at Harrod. “You said there’s a catch?”
Harrod’s professional demeanor didn’t crack. “Her highness Princess
Sibylla has elected to save you, a convicted murderer–” Roger bristled at the word “–from the scaffold by ordaining you into the Straybound. You will be sworn to her highness and given the rites of redemption through service. Can you comprehend the meaning of this?”
Harrod’s choice of the word “service” put him on guard, and his relief at dodging a disgusting end faded only slightly as he realized a new type of noose would be fitted about his neck. As a dead man he wouldn’t be fit to serve, so by his estimations he might be better off.
“I’ve heard the word before, sir. Along with a faerie story about bewitched slaves who do as they’re commanded. Though,” Roger added softly so Archbishop Tittlebury wouldn’t hear, “I think it’s mostly nonsense. A man’s brain is his own. It can’t be bridled or fitted with levers.”
Harrod’s face remained unreadable. “Today is the initial anointing. Your final Binding will take place at St Myrtle’s Cathedral in six days’ time. But as we can’t have murderers serving the Divine Maiden straight out of Old Grim, or running loose in the streets scaring children, I will oversee your probation until such a time as you are fully bound, and your soul reclaimed. For the next week, I will prepare you for this most vital and blessed role.”
Roger detected a sardonic curl to Harrod’s lip. Now he understood which way the wheels in his brother’s head turned.
“You’ve leashed me at last. With the nooseman at my door, one of you was bound to get a rope around my neck.” He almost believed Harrod had orchestrated this entire murder conviction so he could smugly waltz into prison, snatch Roger from the scaffold’s shadow, and bring him to heel once and for all.
To his surprise, Harrod placed a hand on his shoulder. “Roger – Mr Weathersby,” he amended, a reluctant formality for the archbishop’s benefit, no doubt. “We’re here to spare your life and guide you down the proper path at last.”
Roger stared at the moldy floor between his hands and didn’t budge. “And how is that?”
“Think of Princess Sibylla as your gentle-hearted patron. After the archbishop anoints you, you’ll spend your probation in preparation for the Binding. You’ll be locked up at night, of course – until the Binding you remain a convicted murderer in the eyes of the law. But I’ll feed you, ensure you are respectably dressed, and see that you adhere to your ceremonial fealty.”
“Ceremonial fealty? You mean to enslave me. What devilish tripe!” shouted Roger.
Harrod brandished his crop. “You will not speak thusly in the presence of his grace.”
Roger winced. By the sharp expression in Harrod’s eyes, Roger knew if he protested again, he’d get worse than his brother’s right hook. “Pardon the language, your grace.” He ducked his head.
Harrod continued, “Myrcnia punishes criminals, it does not enslave innocents. All Straybound are pardoned murderers. They also have a reputation of extreme loyalty to their patrons. Something you’ll come to understand in time.”
Again, the archbishop kissed his fingers and raised them in the air. “Thou shouldst be grateful to be chosen by the most exalted princess for the ordination, young man. This Rite of Initiation by the ancient line of Muir dates to the first merciful pardoning of Angus the Foul, who exchanged an inevitable state of headlessness for the divine bindings of Priest-King Rupert the Webbed.”
Roger had seen a reprint of an illuminated manuscript once, in a book Sibet had given him to read. The figure of a shirtless man lay bent over a chopping block, while around him gathered richly-clad spectators – some human, some with faerie wings or water sprite tails. One man held a golden knife above his head. Another offered a golden cup. Sibet had translated the caption in fancy Old Myrcnian script aloud for him: “The Binding of Angus the Foul, first Straybound to the King.”
“I’ve seen the pictures, your reverence,” Roger said.
Harrod swung his crop impatiently. “Never mind the history. Let’s not keep his grace from his many important duties.”
Archbishop Tittlebury nodded solemnly. “First, to become bound the sinner must surrender his autonomy into the hands of his patron with an act of supplication and a signature. This is the Rite of Contract. Angus the Foul signed his in blood, but nowadays we use red ink.”
Harrod lay a hand on Roger’s head. “Should you wish for the Divine
Maiden to spare you an excruciating death, you must perform a formal act of supplication. I’ve written a brief script for your convenience.”
Roger sat up on his knees. Having little choice, he took Harrod’s offered scrap of parchment and read aloud through gritted teeth: “I, Roger Weathersby, being found guilty by the magistrate for the heinous and vile crime of murder, do humbly beg the Divine Maiden Sibylla that my wretched life be spared by the power of her royal majesty the Queen’s Exalted Bench.”
“Now, there’s only the matter of your signature.” Harrod gave Roger’s head a satisfied pat.
The archbishop held out an ivory box in his shaking hands. He lifted the lid, revealing a gold quill and crystal inkwell filled with the blood-colored ink. Harrod pressed the writing instrument to Roger’s palm and pulled the chair over to serve as a table. Miniscule calligraphy covered the document they set before him, the text incomprehensible Old Myrcnian.
“Your signature,” said Archbishop Tittlebury, “must be freely given. A Straybound’s existence is as fleeting as a candle in a hurricane. Some say it is easier to simply die.”
Roger balked. Formal supplication be damned, he didn’t have to sign this hideous paper. He could tell Harrod to bugger off with his oppressive contract and enjoy a freeing, if excruciating, death on his own terms. Roger touched his neck, imagining the scratch of a hemp noose. A slit belly.
Mutilated manhood. His own pickled eyeballs in a jar on some young surgeon’s desk, forever winning staring contests with horrified patients.
On the other hand, Sibet had offered to save his life. She hadn’t forgotten him. Swearing fealty to her couldn’t be worse than death. He swallowed, then scribbled an X where Harrod pointed.
“Your full name,” said Harrod sternly. “You might fool your jailers, but I know you can write.”
Roger added the Roger and Weathersby to either side of the X.
The ink had barely dried when there was a commotion in the hall. A flush-faced Mr Murray slid into Roger’s cell.
“Did you think you’d get away with this chicanery?” Mr Murray pulled his collar higher and stabbed his pen in Harrod’s direction. “I think not, sir. I don’t care what medals you wear, this man has been found guilty, convicted of the most heinous crimes, and will pay for it at the end of a rope.”
Harrod adjusted his Order of the Kraken. “This man is no longer a concern of the court.”
“I do insist on verifying this alleged legal claim. You may have put a blind man’s mask on these constables, but I won’t be fooled by so evident a sham. You’ll be demoted and stripped of your station for committing perjury. Nothing short of a royal pardon by the queen herself could set this villain free.”
“Fortunately, you are mistaken.” The archbishop stepped forward, his tall hat falling slightly askew to reveal a tuft of silver hair.
“Archbishop Tittlebury.” Mr Murray bowed his head respectfully, sucking in his breath as he affixed his spectacles to his nose. “I had no idea your grace was present here. I would have never dared to interrupt. But on whose authority…”
Archbishop Tittlebury cleared his throat. His shoulders hunched, but his chin rose, displaying a ceremonial gold mask little more than the width of his eyes that appeared melted to his face. “According to the Act of Righteous Authority, as a direct heir to the throne, the aforementioned signatory who will henceforth not be named has exercised privilege to this man’s life in perpetuity.”
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 12