| This can’t be happening. I haven’t seen the sun in days; I’d almost forgotten how good sunshine feels on my face. A beautiful day – I shouldn’t have to die a day like this. Looks like the scaffold is fifty yards away; I guess I have about fifty more steps. 1 – 2 – 3 – maybe I’ll never make it there, maybe this walk will last forever. Three – that’s the number of children my mother lost before I was born. One was stillborn, the others died within a few weeks. She always said I was the lucky one. My parents rushed me to the church to be baptized, lest I die un-christened like their first son. They named me William after my godfather, William Walle. (Hanawalt 174). 6 – 7 – each step takes an eternity. I can hear every bee, smell every blade of grass, and see every face with frightening clarity. It’s a large crowd. Some of them look ashamed to be here, but most look eager and excited about the spectacle. Everyone I know is here. They’re lining the path from the prison to the gibbet like hungry crows. Hunger – that’s the real reason I’m dying today. Hunger has never really left me, save very briefly after the feasts on Easter, Michaelmas, and Christmas. I never could get enough to eat. And now I’ll die while famished – the guards didn’t see the point to feeding a condemned man, so they ate my last supper themselves. I heard them laughing about it, joking about how bowels loosen during a hanging, saying that depriving me of food will make the post-execution cleanup that much easier. Each step brings the gallows nearer. 12 – 13 – I was thirteen when I remember seeing him for the first time, my future lord. He was riding a new palfrey through the village commons, its mouth was bleeding and its sides were lathered. Even as a young man, the future Lord Faxley showed signs of the brutality that characterizes his life. What was I thinking about? Oh, right – hunger. The last two years have been particularly bad. Floods came soon after we’d sown and drowned the crops, then we had droughts during the growing season. The wheat was a complete loss, and our barley and rye harvests were almost as bad. The first year was problem enough, but the second poor harvest crippled us. Then came the cow disease; dozens of animals died, and I lost the one cow I’d been saving. (Bennett 188) We burned a few suspected witches, thinking that perhaps they cursed our fields and livestock, but things haven’t improved yet. We petitioned our lord for help, but he refused, telling us that the hard times were sent by God to punish us for our sloth and insolence. I was left with little choice – I could starve then and watch my family die with me, or I could hunt for a deer and hope to not be caught poaching by my lord’s foresters. My hunger would probably be the death of me either way. I made the right choice, I believe that even now. I still remember the excitement and fear I felt that night, as I crept into the woods and waited with my bow. It was a chilly October night, with no visible moon. I was certain my shivering would scare away any deer, if they didn’t hear my furiously pounding heart or growling belly first. I was lucky though (or unlucky, as things turned out) – a beautiful stag passed my hiding place. Trembling as I was from cold and nervousness, it’s a miracle that I managed to put a shaft in his side. After a silent, frantic search, I found his quivering body a few dozen yards away. I finished him off quickly and mercifully, and then cut off as much as I could carry. The rest of the body I hastily covered with a few branches and left to decay in the woods. That’s what will happen to me soon – my body will soon be decomposing on that gallows. My death is meant to warn the other peasants not to follow my example, to show the folly of poaching from the lord’s woods, so I know he’ll order that my body remain on display until the birds and the elements have stripped it clean. 19 – 20 steps, almost halfway there. The sea of faces is beginning to swirl together, so that one person is hard to tell from the next. The slowly approaching gallows are starkly vivid, but the faces are just a blur. Occasionally a face does stick out for no discernable reason: there’s Wat the butcher, there’s John, my brother-in-law, and there’s Robert, my neighbor. I try to catch his eye but can’t - he isn’t looking at my face. I guess he’s ashamed of what he did. Maybe hunger isn’t the main reason I’m going to die, maybe it’s stupidity. I was stupid to share some of the meat with my neighbor, stupid to think he wouldn’t tell anyone, stupid to think that my lord might possibly show mercy and turn a blind eye during a year like this. But I don’t blame Robert. He was starving just like me, too hungry to care. I guess once the consuming hunger passed he must have panicked. Eating the deer made him look just as guilty as me, and he must have been afraid we’d be caught. But this is entirely my fault; I don’t blame him for trying to protect himself. Because he confessed and turned me in, his punishment was light: a minor fine. I saw the bailiff coming to my door the next morning, so I ran. My guilt was never in question, with Robert’s testimony and the bloody remains of a deer’s flank poorly hidden behind my hut. At first I considered staying, hoping for a lenient ruling: this was my first offence and I had only become a poacher when faced with starvation. But then I remembered Lord Faxley’s reputation for mercilessness and cruelty. Since childhood, he’s had a violent temper and always has been susceptible to fierce rages. He’s been known to kill a dog for biting him or a horse for kicking him, and the news of one of his peasants stealing one of his precious deer would surely infuriate the lord. I would be hung, or at least lose a hand. So I decided to run. I’d heard rumors of the outlaw Trailbaston, living free in the Greenwood of Belregard. He’d offered sanctuary to any who were unjustly accused or wronged by the law, so I decided to join him. (Ohlgren 99) Because I chose to run rather than face my lord’s punishment, I was declared an outlaw. I was eventually caught, a mere two miles from the safety of the woods. During my capture, I injured one of the lord’s favorite squires, the son of a minor baron. The boy’s wound festered and he died a few days later, sealing my fate. 28 – 29 – things are moving too fast, the gallows is very close now, I guess fifty yards was an optimistic estimate of the distance from the prison door to the foot of the gallows. There it is, so close now: a simple wooden frame, like an empty door. It stands out so darkly against the beautiful afternoon sky. The rope dangles a few feet above a empty cart, harnessed to two skittish horses. They don’t like the crowd either. 34, wait – 35 – we’re already there! This is too soon, I thought there’d be more time; I’m not ready to die yet! My stomach burns with acid and my hands are cold as ice, terror completely paralyzing me. My arms are bound behind me, gripped roughly by one of the guards – named Myles, I think. But there he is – the lord himself! If only I could break free... I’m going to die anyway; maybe I can at least hurt that selfish, cruel tyrant first. I let my body go slack, the sudden dead weight throwing off my guard’s balance. Lunge backward, twist left, throwing myself desperately about... I finally manage to break free. His small eyes grow large in surprise as I rush toward him, dodging two more guards who try to stop me. He’s only a few steps away now; I still have no idea what I’ll do when I reach him, with both hands tied behind my back, but I no longer care. Suffused with rage, all I want to do is hurt him like he’s hurt me and my family. Suddenly I see another face, a kindly old face, full of pity, sadness, and disappointment. The village priest, Father Martin, is sitting a few feet from the lord. I falter, my rage turning to shame as I remember confessing to him just a few hours ago. Several hands roughly seize my arms, and the back of my head explodes with pain. I’m pushed roughly to the ground as my mouth fills with coppery blood – must have bitten my tongue and not noticed. Taking no further chances, three guards half drag, half carry me to the cart. The rage is gone now, terror also has passed. These tumultuous emotions leave nothing in their wake; I feel numb and detached. I vaguely remember the words of the priest at my absolution: “Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat...” I couldn’t understand what he said; any more that I normally understood the mass. But his voice was always so comforting, so soothing. Even as they push me up into the cart, as it rocks beneath my weight and the horses fidget nervously, I close my eyes and remember my last confession. I confessed every sin I could remember and many I didn’t, just in case. I remember the priest smiling reassuringly and promising to pray for me. The noose is going around my neck – the rough cord scratches my neck as they tighten it securely. Not much time left now. I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the sunshine and the eager crowd. I try to ignore the creaking of the cart, the muttering and shuffling people, and one solitary singing bird. Nothing feels real except the cord around my neck. The seconds drag on interminably, as I wait with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the inevitable whip cracking over the horses’ heads. The lord is making some speech, I think – I ignore that too. Instead I think again about the priest’s last words: “...te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” (Hanna) A whip cracks, the horses lunge forward, and a body is left dangling blackly against the bright afternoon sky as an odd half moan, half cheer bursts from the gathered crowd. |
