by Rebecca King
All week he had been in a cell at the rear of the gaol, overlooking the inner courtyard. He had heard the hammering and sawing as the gallows had been constructed and, with nothing else to do, had stood on his small wooden cot and stared out through the bars. Only yesterday he had watched first his right-hand man, then his best and most trusted associates, being led out, one by one, to meet their fate.
He felt sick to his stomach. If he had a knife, he would have cut his own throat there and then and saved himself the ordeal that lay ahead. Each man they had hanged yesterday had lingered. With no relatives or friends allowed to watch the hangings, the men had not had anyone to pull their legs and quicken their fate, leaving them to die a slow and painful death.
No sooner had the hangings taken place than gaolers had arrived and moved him to a cell in the darkest reaches of the hellhole and left him. He had been fed a little, and given a little water. That morning, one of the gaolers had informed him that his son was being hanged at first light at Newgate. The gruel they called breakfast that he had thrown at the bars wasn’t any great loss. He didn’t care about anything now anyway. He had nothing left.
His money was gone, stolen by the Redcoats. All his best and most trusted men had been hanged. Even his precious son had been put to death. His home had been raized to the ground by an army determined to ensure anyone who had escaped their net would have no base to work from. Although he would rather have his teeth pulled out than admit it, he had been reduced to nothing.
The sunlight had not even bothered to make an appearance, having long since given way to the continuous drizzle that hung in the air. Although he knew it was going to happen, he still jumped when the heavy iron bolt on the cell door was drawn back, the sound echoing hollowly around the stone walls. He closed his eyes and then glared sullenly at the two men who entered. His small eyes were almost feral as he stared spitefully at them.
They had no doubt he would have killed them had he been given half the chance, and had been alerted to remain on guard to stop him taking his own life.
Scraggan had no doubt they were enjoying being able to mete out justice to one of Cornwall’s most notorious criminals. Still, he may be down but he certainly wasn’t out just yet and he was determined not to go without a fight.
They unchained him from the wall, dragging him unceremoniously across the floor when he refused to walk. He traded curses and insults with the inmates who shouted through the bars at him, dragging his heels to make it harder for the gaolers to lead him. Nevertheless, he was brought before the waiting ironmonger who quickly hammered the chains apart and released the manacles.
Scraggan glared at the two men standing on either side of the ironmonger while he worked, clearly armed with pistols. He had no doubt they would wound him and hang him anyway and, although angry, Scraggan was no idiot and didn’t see why he should make his last few minutes in the world harder than they needed to be. His face was a blank mask of fury as his hands were wrenched roughly behind his back.
The vicar who hesitantly came forward to issue his last rights and pray with him was told roughly where he could shove his bible.
Preliminaries concluded, Scraggan walked down the long corridor toward the shaft of light leading to the courtyard. He ignored the barrage of insults, spittle and hatred thrown at him as he passed, staring blankly ahead with a hard smile on his face.
Despite his bravado, he swallowed harshly as he saw the waiting gallows. He was dragged down the flight of steps into the waiting courtyard and shoved roughly across the uneven cobbles to the steps. Six steps took him upward to the flat square of wooden planks with the trap door clearly visible in the middle. The loop of rope swung in the breeze. Wearing nothing but his breeches and a thin cotton shirt, Scraggan shivered as he was blasted by the cold wind. In the distance he could hear the ringing of metal and glanced over at the gaol, cursing roundly when he saw the sea of faces staring through the bars to watch his death. If he could have spit that far, he would have given each man an eyeful. Instead, he gritted his teeth and ignored the shouts of encouragement to the hangman, who was waiting for his next victim.
Scraggan had to be shoved into position above the trap door. His last view of the world was of the small open square of earth that lay waiting. The rough material of the hood shoved over his head did little to block out the shouts and laughter, and he began to pray silently as he waited.
On the high walls of Bodmin Gaol that circled the grey courtyard sat a solitary rook, the harbinger of death, watching the proceedings with a beady eye. His loud caw of delight was cut short by a loud crack, that startled the bird off his perch. He dipped and swooped around the yard, cawing loudly in alarm as the body beneath him danced and jerked.
Sensing death, the rook headed in search of warmth and, with a loud squawk of warning, flew high into the sky, happily leaving the death and misery behind.
In Oxfordshire, cheering crowds clapped and threw rice and rose petals at the couples who swept joyously out of the church.
Edward nodded to several acquaintances, and accepted their congratulations with a huge grin of relief. His eyes met and held those of his wife for several moments as he tried to silently convey his delight.
“You know what they are waiting for, don’t you?” he murmured, eyeing his wife’s soft lips with a cheeky grin.
Puzzled, Eliza shook her head and barely had a moment to gasp before she was swept into his arms. There, amid the raucous cheers and laughter of a delighted crowd, she was kissed thoroughly by her new husband.
Peter laughed and gazed lovingly at his wife.
“Come here,” he whispered, drawing her away from the crowds and over to a quieter part of the graveyard.
There, below the heavily laden branches of a sweet-smelling apple blossom tree, he took his wife into his arms, savouring the feel of her against him.
“You look stunning, darling,” he whispered softly.
“Thank you,” Jemima replied with a gentle smile. “I don’t think I have ever thanked you for following me when I left Devon. A lot of men would have run a mile at the first scent of trouble.”
“Mmm, believe me, there have been moments when I had my doubts about the wisdom of pursuing you. But seeing as there was no one else -” he laughed when Jemima whacked him playfully on the shoulder.
“I do love you,” she whispered, all her love, longing and contentment in her gaze as she studied him.
Peter’s chest swelled with pride. “And I love you, my darling Jemima,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Jemima chuckled as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, showering them with a feather-light cascade of apple blossom.
Revelling in being carefree at last, she tipped her head back and allowed the silken leaves to tickle her cheeks and nose as she relished having her husband’s arms around her.
There, under the falling leaves of the apple blossom tree, Peter answered the calls of the jubilant crowd and claimed his wife’s lips for a very thorough kiss.
“Come on, darling,” he whispered several moments later when he finally released his wife’s lips, “let the celebrations begin.”
“Amen to that,” Jemima whispered.
The End
Other books in this series:
If You Were Mine
Cinders and Ashes
Chasing Eliza
Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe will be released in summer 2013
Further details of all Rebecca’s books can be found on her website:
Rebeccaking-author.co.uk
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