Catherine looked at Ambrose for as long as she would an ordinary man, then she made herself turn away, but still his image lingered in her head: his hair, his shoulders, his lips . . .
A flurry of courtiers appeared from behind the scaffold. From the way they were stepping back and bowing, it was obvious that her father was on his way. Catherine’s heart beat erratically. She had lived a sheltered life in the queen’s wing of the castle with her mother and maids, going weeks or months without seeing her father. For her, his one and only daughter, his presence was still an occasion.
The king appeared, walking quickly, his red and black jacket emphasizing his wide shoulders, his tall hat adding to his height. Catherine rose swiftly to her feet and demurely lowered her head as she sank into a deep curtsy. She was on a platform above the king, but her head should be lower than his. Tall as her father was, it was still a contortion. Catherine held her stomach tight and thighs tense in a semi-crouch. Her corset dug sharply into her waist. She concentrated on the discomfort, knowing she’d outlast it. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the king. He leaped onto the royal platform, strode forward, and the crowd, on seeing him clearly, cheered, and a long slow shout went up, “Aloysius! Aloysius!”
Boris rose from his bow and Catherine waited the required two extra counts before lifting her head. The king was motionless, looking to the crowd, and he didn’t acknowledge Catherine at all. Then he sat on the seat next to Harold, red cushions having appeared moments before to ease his royal rump. Catherine stood, feeling the relief in her stomach. Harold too had straightened from his bow and stood stiffly, hesitating before sitting, though Catherine was sure he’d be delighted to be next to the king. She waited for Boris to sit, and then she straightened her skirt and retook her own place.
Things moved quickly now. The king wasn’t noted for his patience, after all. More men ascended the scaffold. There were four men in black and four in guard uniforms, and barely seen among them, diminished, small, and frail, was the prisoner.
The crowd jeered and shouted, “Traitor!” Then, “Whore!” and “Bitch!” and worse, much worse.
There were words Catherine knew and had occasionally come across in reading but had never heard spoken, not even by Boris, and now they were flying through the air around her. They were more powerful than she’d known words could be, and they were not beautiful, poetic, or clever, but base and vulgar, like a slap in the face.
Catherine caught a glimpse of Ambrose, still and stiff opposite her, his face contorted as the crowd jeered and insulted his sister. Catherine shut her eyes.
Boris hissed in her ear, “You’re not looking, princess. You’re here to see what happens to traitors. It’s for your own good. So, if you don’t turn to face the scaffold, I’ll pin your eyes open myself.”
Catherine didn’t doubt Boris’s sincerity. She opened her eyes and turned back to the scaffold.
Lady Anne Norwend was dressed in a gown of blue silk with silver lace. Her jewels sparkled in the sunlight and her blonde hair, pinned up, glowed gold. In normal times, Lady Anne was considered beautiful, but today was far from normal. Now she was painfully thin, her skin pale, and she was held upright by two guards. But most noticeable of all was her mouth: thick black lines of twine stretched from her top lip to her bottom where her mouth had been sewn up, and dried blood covered her chin and neck. Her tongue had already been cut out. Catherine wanted to look to Ambrose, but didn’t dare turn to him, couldn’t bear to see him again. What must he be thinking to see his sister like this? Catherine stared in the direction of Lady Anne and found the way to do it was to concentrate on the guard holding her up, and how fat his fingers were and how tight his grip was.
The king’s speaker stepped forward to address the crowd, demanding silence. When the din subsided he began reading from a scroll, listing Lady Anne’s crimes. “Luring a married man into temptation” referred to her relationship with Sir Oswald Pence. “Failing to attend on the king when requested” meant fleeing with Sir Oswald when Noyes and his men confronted them. “Murder of the king’s men” meant just that, and hard as it was to believe looking at Lady Anne now, she had herself stabbed one of the king’s soldiers in the fight that left three dead including Sir Oswald. The murder was the key reason she was to be executed; murder of one of the king’s men was tantamount to killing the king himself—it was high treason, and so, to round his speech off, the speaker said, “And for being a traitor to Brigant and our glorious king.”
The crowd went wild.
“The traitor, murderer, and whore is to be stripped of all possessions, which are forfeit to the king.”
One of the black-clothed men approached Lady Anne and began removing her jewels one by one. Each time he took an item—a brooch, a ring, a bracelet—there were cheers and shouts from the crowd. Each item was put into a casket held by another man. When the jewels were all removed, that man took a knife and cut the back of her dress, and a fresh cheer from the crowd rose as the gown was ripped from her shoulders. Lady Anne was almost dragged off her feet, but the guard pulled her upright and held her. The crowd bayed again like a pack of hounds and began a chant of “Strip! Strip! Strip!”
Lady Anne was left in her underdress, clutching its thin fabric to her chest. Her hands were shaking, and Catherine could see that her fingers were misshapen and broken. At first Catherine didn’t understand why, but then she realized that it was part of the ritual of a traitor’s execution. Those condemned for treason were not allowed to communicate with the king’s loyal subjects and so had their tongues cut out, their lips sewn up. But, as all court ladies in Brigant used hand signs to speak to each other when they were not allowed to use words, Lady Anne had had her hands broken too.
One of the men loosened Lady Anne’s hair, which was long and fine and the palest of yellows. He took a handful and cut it at the nape of her neck. He held the hair and that too went in the casket. Finally she was left near naked, shivering despite the summer sun, the tattered gown almost transparent and clinging to her legs where she had wet herself. It seemed even Lady Anne’s dignity was forfeit to the king.
Turning from Lady Anne, the speaker called to the platform opposite, “What do you say to this traitor?”
Her father, the marquess, a tall, gray-haired man, came forward. He straightened his back and cleared his throat.
“You have betrayed your country and your glorious king. You have betrayed my family and myself, all loyal subjects who have nurtured you and trusted you. You have betrayed my trust and my family’s name. It would have been better if you had not been born. I denounce you and call for your execution as a traitor.”
Catherine looked for Lady Anne’s reaction. She stared back at her father and seemed to stand more upright. In turn, five other male relatives—her two uncles and two cousins and her elder brother, Tarquin, who was close in looks to Ambrose, with the same blond hair—came forward and shouted their denouncements of a similar kind and called at the end for her execution. After each censure the crowd cheered and then went silent for the next person. And after each one Lady Anne seemed to grow in strength and stature. At first Catherine was surprised at this, but she too began to sit taller. The more they demeaned Lady Anne, the more she wanted to show them how strong she was.
The last to step forward was Ambrose. He opened his mouth but no words came out. His brother leaned toward him and spoke. Catherine could read Tarquin’s lips as he said, “Please, Ambrose. You have to do it.”
Ambrose took a breath before saying in a voice that was clear but hardly raised, “You are a traitor to Brigant and the king. I call for your execution.” His brother put his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. Ambrose continued staring at Lady Anne as tears rolled down his cheeks. The crowd didn’t cheer.