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Authors: William Napier
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They gave no reason. The boy said not a word. He might have been a deaf mute, or a dummerer, faking such. As he was dragged past them their eyes met, and Nicholas saw in those dead hollows a total indifference more terrifying than any savagery.
The parson stepped forward and asked the boy for his last confession of sins. The boy stood in sullen silence before him, saying nothing. Then he hawked and spat full in the parson’s face. The parson stepped back and wiped his face with a cloth and bowed his head and prayed.
The hangman checked the knot in the rope one last time, glancing at the boy. Then the noose went over his filthy neck and he was hauled up. He didn’t kick once. The beam creaked, the thin body twisted back and forth. The eyes still stared. He must have been about eleven.
Crake himself read out their crimes, in a voice that sounded like he was giving a sermon.
‘The two villains here apprehended are guilty of idle vagabondage and thievery, to the just anger of Almighty God. They are of that kind which currently infest our kingdom, called sturdy beggars, who lack nothing in the way of limbs or faculties, as customary beggars, upon whom Our Lord himself looked kindly; but rather lack only the will to work, favouring a life of thieving and dishonesty practised on decent townsfolk such as are here present.’
There was a general self-satisfied murmur.
‘Whereat it is decreed that these two shall be stripped and tied to a cart, and lashed through the streets of the parish until their backs be bloody, as the Law of England decrees. They shall then be branded on the chest with a V, to mark their chosen profession, in the hope that their souls be cleansed. And God have mercy upon them.’
Branded . Hence the brazier. They would be marked and shamed for life.
One of the constables drew out the lash. It was no schoolmaster’s cane for switching backsides. It was a length of oxhide furled into a whip, purposely made to take the skin off a man’s back, and more. Such a whip could cut through to ribs or backbone in only two or three lashes. It could tear the flesh away in chunks, like the jaws of a wolf. It could leave a man standing, or falling, in a puddle of his own blood. It could kill a man.
The two constables pulled their arms forward roughly and hooked the ropes over the stanchions at the back of the haycart and cinched them as tight as a tourniquet by twisting a strut of wood behind, until the two boys hung there, backs stretched, toes barely touching the ground.
‘Want a stick?’ one growled.
Nicholas shook his head.
‘Yes,’ said Hodge. ‘We both.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘Believe me.’
One of the men produced two short sticks and held them in front of the boys’ faces. ‘Open your jaws. Now bite down.’
Nicholas worked his jaws again, and spat the stick out at the man’s feet. ‘Have it to kindle your fire.’
The man grinned.
Hodge grunted through his stick. His high-mettled arse of a master. He’d be screaming soon enough.
The other constable flicked the whip straight behind them, not cruelly, but the slight crack made Nicholas clench in anticipation of pain.
Let it come, he thought. From heaven my father looks down on me now. Let him see how I bear it.
Crake himself was right behind them, and it was the Justice ofthe Peace himself, unaccountably, who slid a knife beneath their shirts and split the seam, and then tore the shirts from their backs.
Nicholas caught his gaze.
Crake raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘Surely, villainous spawn of a traitorous father, you have some rude curse for me? As I go about the Queen’s appointed justice?’
Nicholas’s gaze remained fixed. ‘Deeds, not words. You will know them in time.’
‘How splendid.’ He tore the last remnant of shirt off the boy’s back. His skin gleamed white and pure. He tossed the scrap of linen into the cart beside him.
‘To staunch the blood flow after. You’ll need it.’
He turned away.
The last thing
The parson stepped forward and asked the boy for his last confession of sins. The boy stood in sullen silence before him, saying nothing. Then he hawked and spat full in the parson’s face. The parson stepped back and wiped his face with a cloth and bowed his head and prayed.
The hangman checked the knot in the rope one last time, glancing at the boy. Then the noose went over his filthy neck and he was hauled up. He didn’t kick once. The beam creaked, the thin body twisted back and forth. The eyes still stared. He must have been about eleven.
Crake himself read out their crimes, in a voice that sounded like he was giving a sermon.
‘The two villains here apprehended are guilty of idle vagabondage and thievery, to the just anger of Almighty God. They are of that kind which currently infest our kingdom, called sturdy beggars, who lack nothing in the way of limbs or faculties, as customary beggars, upon whom Our Lord himself looked kindly; but rather lack only the will to work, favouring a life of thieving and dishonesty practised on decent townsfolk such as are here present.’
There was a general self-satisfied murmur.
‘Whereat it is decreed that these two shall be stripped and tied to a cart, and lashed through the streets of the parish until their backs be bloody, as the Law of England decrees. They shall then be branded on the chest with a V, to mark their chosen profession, in the hope that their souls be cleansed. And God have mercy upon them.’
Branded . Hence the brazier. They would be marked and shamed for life.
One of the constables drew out the lash. It was no schoolmaster’s cane for switching backsides. It was a length of oxhide furled into a whip, purposely made to take the skin off a man’s back, and more. Such a whip could cut through to ribs or backbone in only two or three lashes. It could tear the flesh away in chunks, like the jaws of a wolf. It could leave a man standing, or falling, in a puddle of his own blood. It could kill a man.
The two constables pulled their arms forward roughly and hooked the ropes over the stanchions at the back of the haycart and cinched them as tight as a tourniquet by twisting a strut of wood behind, until the two boys hung there, backs stretched, toes barely touching the ground.
‘Want a stick?’ one growled.
Nicholas shook his head.
‘Yes,’ said Hodge. ‘We both.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘Believe me.’
One of the men produced two short sticks and held them in front of the boys’ faces. ‘Open your jaws. Now bite down.’
Nicholas worked his jaws again, and spat the stick out at the man’s feet. ‘Have it to kindle your fire.’
The man grinned.
Hodge grunted through his stick. His high-mettled arse of a master. He’d be screaming soon enough.
The other constable flicked the whip straight behind them, not cruelly, but the slight crack made Nicholas clench in anticipation of pain.
Let it come, he thought. From heaven my father looks down on me now. Let him see how I bear it.
Crake himself was right behind them, and it was the Justice ofthe Peace himself, unaccountably, who slid a knife beneath their shirts and split the seam, and then tore the shirts from their backs.
Nicholas caught his gaze.
Crake raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘Surely, villainous spawn of a traitorous father, you have some rude curse for me? As I go about the Queen’s appointed justice?’
Nicholas’s gaze remained fixed. ‘Deeds, not words. You will know them in time.’
‘How splendid.’ He tore the last remnant of shirt off the boy’s back. His skin gleamed white and pure. He tossed the scrap of linen into the cart beside him.
‘To staunch the blood flow after. You’ll need it.’
He turned away.
The last thing
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