by Rebecca King
“We need to secure a cart,” Dominic announced, mounting his horse and turning toward his brothers. “I’ll stay if you want, and wait at the back of the gaol for-” his voice hitched as he considered his next words carefully.
He had to make sure nothing went wrong when it was over. The consequences were just too dire; if they were late, she would be quick-limed and buried before they could retrieve her.
“When she is-” he paused and sucked in a breath, unable to voice the words aloud. “When she is cut down, she will be taken into the holding area at the side of the gaol, away from prying eyes. It’s there that they take the death masks. When they are done, they will take the bodies around to the graves and cover them in quick-lime before they are buried. We only have a short amount of time to get her back before they move the bodies. The quicker they are put in the ground, apparently, the quicker they can move on and forget.”
His voice was contemptuous as he considered the brutality of the judicial system, and the unfairness of it if you were innocent. Although he initially had doubts about Jemima’s innocence, after the night’s events, he knew with certainty that she had done nothing wrong other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“So do you want to stay and watch her die?” Sebastian’s voice was incredulous as he studied his older brother. There were lines on his face that Sebastian could have sworn weren’t there earlier that day, or was that yesterday? He couldn’t be sure. He felt as though he had been in the hellhole for a lifetime.
Dawn was already fast approaching and, if they didn’t move soon, they would be hemmed in by the public who were already arriving to get the best views to see the spectacle.
“Gruesome bastards,” Edward spat, shooting a look of contempt at two women who were carrying their knitting and a basket of food.
“Of course not,” Dominic snapped. “I’m just saying that one of us has to stay here with a cart to collect her afterwards. I’ll do it.”
“No,” Edward shook his head and threw Dominic a look of dread. “I’ll do it. It’s the least I can do for Eliza. You are right; nothing can go wrong. It’s too important.”
As they rode away from the gaol, they quietly came to the agreement that they would take Peter to a tavern on the outskirts of the town while he was still unconscious, far enough away that - even if he rode flat-out - he would not be able to get back in time to see the woman he loved swing from the gallows. Meanwhile, Edward would secure a horse and cart, and the necessary items they would need to move a body to Havistock Hall without being a public spectacle and would go to the gaol to wait at the back doors. When it was over, and her body was released by the authorities, they would take her to Havistock Hall via the Golden Fleece where Sebastian and Dominic would be waiting with an undoubtedly bitter and very angry Peter.
Jemima spent that same hour in a haze of dejected misery so stark, so hopeless, that she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. She never spoke, despite the quiet whispers demanding to know what the gaoler had wanted, and instead curled up tightly in a futile attempt to close the world out.
Despite the shattered remnants of her heart, she knew she had made the right decision. Peter would undoubtedly hate her for her callousness, but she also knew that he wasn’t an unfair man. As soon as the fog of grief lifted, he would see the wisdom of her decision and, she hoped, not hate her too much.
Although she knew it was coming, she still jumped when the lock slid back on the cell door, heralding the arrival of the new day.
“Up,” the gaoler ordered, dragging the man closest to the door onto his feet and out of the room. Five of the men were manacled to him, and had no choice but to lurch awkwardly to their feet and shuffle after him.
Jemima waited her turn and followed. She wasn’t manacled to the others, most probably because they knew she would hardly be able to move under the weight of the heavy ironwork around her hands and wrists.
As she stepped out into the long corridor, she knew she wouldn’t be returning to the condemned cell. Given the fate that awaited her, the claustrophobic darkness suddenly didn’t seem all that bad. She had the wild urge to run back into the gloomy depths and stay there.
Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the tracks of tears on her grimy face and stared stoically at the back of the man’s head before her as they shuffled down the corridor to a side room. Inside, a single table laden with nine plates of steaming food sat waiting for them. The aroma of cooked vegetables, the only decent food they had been given since their arrival several days ago, teased their nostrils.
Despite her hunger, Jemima couldn’t swallow any of it. She tore off a piece of the chunk of stale bread beside her plate and chewed absently, watching the faces of the men around her. She didn’t know if they were fully aware of what lay in store for them. Throughout the ordeal they had been a reticent bunch. Briefly she wondered if they all knew Scraggan. They had all been there on that night. They had all looked as shocked and horrified as she had when they had been carted off to gaol. During their trial, each man had repeatedly declared they had been innocent, and set up.
Even if she did learn the truth about that night, there was nothing she could do about her own fate, let alone theirs. It was too late.
Unable to force any of the food down, she simply sat and waited. When they were finished, they were visited by the vicar who prayed with those who wished to pray for forgiveness. Some of the men began to weep as the realisation of their situation rose before them.
Having lost her faith some time ago, Jemima simply remained quiet, strangely detached from everything. When the gaolers ordered them to move again, she shuffled after the line of men. As she left the room, her eyes met and held those of the gaoler who had been present in Mr Simpson’s office earlier. There was something strange about the way he always seem to be watching her, ever present, silent and watchful.
While standing in line to have her manacles removed, she could feel his eyes boring into her back. She knew if she looked over her shoulder, he would be there; waiting. She shivered and fought off the strange feeling of unease that swept through her.
Whatever he was doing didn’t really matter anymore, she thought, shuffling forward a couple of steps. Even over the clanging of the ironmonger’s hammer, they could hear the rumble of the chattering crowds gathering around the gallows. It was a special occasion, and some people had taken a rare day off specially to watch the hangings.
Small shafts of sunlight valiantly attempted to penetrate the cloying gloom within the dank building, as the men had their iron manacles hammered off before their hands were tied behind their backs.
Jemima glanced down in horror at the small black piece of cloth that was held out to her when her manacles had been taken off. She carefully did as she was instructed and tied her hair up, before having her wrists tied behind her back.
A fine tremor of horror settled over her, and she knew she was beyond weeping; beyond feeling anything other than a sense of loss so deep, she knew her only chance of finding peace was through death. If she remained alive now, she would be forever changed.
Silently she sent a prayer heavenwards that Dominic and his brothers had been true to their word and taken Peter far away. She wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. She couldn’t.
With the formalities over, they were ushered into a long, dark corridor that was very similar to the one that led to the condemned cell, but with a door at the opposite end that led outside to the front of the gaol.
At first Jemima was at the front of the queue and was quickly held back by the gaoler who had been watching her. Fear had locked in her throat and she was unable to voice the questions she wanted to ask as she turned to him, her eyes full of questions he refused to answer. She stood back and waited as the men shuffled one by one before her and then it dawned on her why she was being kept until last. Obviously the sight of a woman being hanged held far more importance than she had realised, and they wanted to make the crowds wait for the spectacle
.
On legs that trembled violently with fear, Jemima waited at the end of the queue. Somewhere in front of her, one of the men began to weep and plead for his life. They all jumped as the door at the end suddenly opened, and the small space was suddenly filled with a cacophony of shouts and screams of the crowd.
The first man was dragged unceremoniously outside, his vociferous protests ignored as the door was slammed closed behind him, encasing the corridor in darkness once more.
Jemima closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but with silence inside the gaol, it was impossible to block out the raucous calls, crude suggestions and cries of horror. The loud slamming of wood, followed by the cheers of the crowd, were impossible to ignore.
Tears gathered in her eyes and for a moment she had to lean against the wall, or else fall to the floor in a wailing heap.
“Are you all right?” The gentle question came from the ever-watchful gaoler. Jemima stared at him blankly, unable to answer.
Alright? Alright? She would never be alright again. Silently she shook her head and returned her gaze to the floor. It seemed to take an age before the door opened again and the corridor was flooded with daylight once more.
How long she stood in the corridor, waiting for her turn to be put to death, she couldn’t be sure, but she was certain she had aged a thousand years before there was just her and the man before her left in the confined space. The crowd outside were baying louder than ever. The slamming of the gallows floor echoed menacingly time and again as the Crown meted out its justice. Cries and screams were accompanied by suggestions and shouts of denial from family members who had come to the hangings to hang on to their loved ones’ legs, and ease their suffering.
“Pull the other leg,” was shouted over and over, until Jemima couldn’t stand it any longer and began to weep openly.
Suddenly the door opened, and the man before her was dragged out into the morning sunshine. The heavy thud of the wooden planks only a few feet from her face made her cry out in horror. Her stomach flipped as she began to shake. She was so intent on keeping herself under control that she missed the silent motion of the gaoler toward the shadows.
“Move up,” he ordered, nudging her toward the door.
Slowly Jemima did as she was told. She had learned on her arrival at the gaol that if she didn’t follow orders, she would be dragged through them anyway. It was far less painful simply to obey.
She was about to turn back to the gaoler and ask for some water, when a foul smell assaulted her nostrils. It was so cloyingly sweet that she immediately felt sick, and her head began to swim alarmingly. Fighting the wave of dizziness, she sucked in a deep breath. Turning, she tried to peer through the gloom for the source of the stench.
She didn’t even have time to cry out before the world went black.
CHAPTER ONE
“God, you bastards,” Peter spat. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” He rubbed the fresh drops of blood off his nose and glared balefully at Dominic. In that moment he could have pounded his best friend to within an inch of his life, without regret. If only he could stand without being sick.
“Where is she now?” Peter’s stomach clenched as a look of bitter regret settled over his friend’s face, and knew without hearing the words that it was already too late.
He quickly glanced out of the window at the brilliant golden sunshine streaming through the window, and felt the heavy weight of grief settle over him that was so strong that he wanted to cry aloud in denial. He knew in that moment that she was gone; snatched from him in the cruellest way possible.
He stared blankly down at his hands, hanging uselessly between his knees. He had lost. Failed. He had made promises he hadn’t been able to keep and, as a result, Jemima, the only woman he had ever loved, had died. She had died trying to protect him, and Eliza.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Dominic offered, wondering if their friendship would ever be the same again. He couldn’t be perturbed by Peter’s anger at him. After all, being knocked out had rendered him useless to do anything to help Jemima. Even though they had already been too late by the time they had arrived at the gaol, it was inevitable that there would be recriminations and accusations when they had to leave empty-handed. If being angry at Dominic helped Peter to deal with his grief, then Dominic was more than willing to take whatever Peter threw at him, fists and all.
It was the desolate calmness about his friend that disturbed him most. Instead of the wild shouting and pleading they had all witnessed in the Mr Simpson’s office, his calm defeat was almost worse.
Throughout their friendship, Peter had always been a warrior, willing to go into skirmishes with a recklessness that at the time had made him one of the best soldiers in the British army. It was disturbing to see him so defeated. It was as though something inside him had simply given up, and it disturbed Dominic greatly.
Peter glared at the man he had considered his friend. He knew it wasn’t Dominic’s fault. The man had, after all, eschewed the warmth of his bed and breakfast in order to accompany him in his desperate quest to save Jemima, but it didn’t ease the thick fog of anger and grief that burned in his veins.
“I won’t say it’s all right,” he growled, his voice as cold and emotionless as the green eyes that glared across the small tavern table at Dominic. “God, I hate you,” Peter snarled, snatching the brandy from the table and downing it in one huge gulp. He gestured to a serving wench, demanding the bottle, as he slammed his goblet down on the table.
“Don’t drink too much, Peter,” Dominic ordered, sitting back and watching as Peter refilled his goblet, downing the contents just as swiftly as the first. “We have to go back to Havistock.”
“Go to hell,” Peter snarled, defiantly refilling his glass and downing that too. He was about to refill his glass for a fourth time when Dominic’s hand on his stopped him. Rage began to build in his chest and he snatched his hand away from Dominic’s.
“We have Jemima’s body to take back to Havistock.” Dominic watched as Peter froze and stared blankly at him as the significance of his words sank in. “Edward and Sebastian have remained at the gaol, to ensure her body is kept separate and returned to us. He is returning to Havistock with her as we speak. She deserves to be buried in consecrated ground, Peter, rather than in that cesspit.”
Peter’s blood chilled at the thought of Jemima’s body, cold and lifeless. A wave of physical pain blossomed from his chest, spreading outwards in a misery that numbed his senses. He glared absently at the bottle before him, and was about to take another drink when a pale and visibly shaken Sebastian appeared beside them.
“Let’s go,” Sebastian suggested, snatching the bottle from under Peter’s nose and taking a fortifying swig directly from it. He hoped that it would wash away some of the horrors he had just witnessed, but knew it would take far, far more than a few swigs of watered-down brandy.
“You have her?” Peter asked softly, eyeing his friend’s haggard features.
Clearly Sebastian was shaken by the morning’s events. His usually handsome face was drawn, his blue eyes troubled and turbulent. Deep grooves now sat on either side of his mouth, matching the wrinkles that marred his high brow.
Peter suddenly realised just how traumatic the morning must have been for everyone, not just himself. He felt some of his anger diminish, only to be replaced with soul-deep sorrow. However deeply the brothers had been affected by the last few hours, they didn’t have the connection to Jemima that he had. He had been the one who had slept with her. He had been the one who had made promises to help her. He had been the one who had failed to keep his promises.
The sudden memory of Dominic’s ordeal when Isobel faced death came to, and he had a better understanding of just what Dominic had gone through. Only this time was different, because Dominic had been given a second chance. Isobel had been alive and, although ill, had found her way back to him to seek the help he had readily offered her.
For Jemima, there had been no second ch
ances. He had blundered, and fumbled, and been useless in offering her any assistance at all, leaving her to a humiliatingly public death. God knows what horrors she had experienced in her final moments.
Anger and self disgust swept through him as he pushed to his feet, moving through the doorway of the tavern in a dark haze of grief. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes as he approached the crude wooden cart sitting directly outside the door.
His eyes met and held Edward’s solemn gaze briefly before he moved to the back of the cart and climbed aboard. His gaze locked on the outline of the body clearly visible beneath the thick blankets.
With shaking hands he slowly drew the blanket down, away from her face, and swallowed the cry of denial that threatened to choke him. Although he had known he was fighting for her life in Simpson’s office, the stark reality of seeing her lifeless face for himself scarred his soul.
Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare, tenderly he trailed a blunt finger down her cold, alabaster face. She was like cold marble. It pained him to feel her so cold. So lifeless. He wished he could see her amber gaze smiling at him just once more.
“God, Jemima, I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his heart a heavy lump in his chest. “I failed you, and I am so sorry.”
Swiping at the moisture on his cheeks, he sucked in a deep breath, aware that, as he jumped down, Edward leaned backward in his seat and covered her face again; something Peter couldn’t bring himself to do. To cover her in such a way meant admitting she had gone beyond his reach, and he simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t need to pull the thick blanket down further to see the markings on her neck. She seemed so peaceful, almost ethereal; almost as though she was waiting for something, or someone to come along so she could open her eyes. He willed her to do so, but knew it was futile. She was gone. Dead.