the creak of the gibbet drowned by the crowd’s sudden murmur.
‘There ’e goes!’ a man yelled.
‘Swing, yer bastard!’ another spectator screeched.
‘Get her away,’ Thurloe commanded one of his men, but Martha had already turned her back on the gallows and was walking towards Tom, her eyes on his. Only his. The crowd cheered as George Green’s legs thrashed wildly and the hangman clung on desperately to the shaking gallows, a grimace splitting his bushy beard.
Martha stumbled and fell to her knees, retching, and then Tom and Mun were there and Tom took off his cloak and put it round her shoulders and Mun saw the girl’s anguish reflected in his brother’s eyes.
‘What have I done?’ Martha asked, staring at Tom, then at Mun.
‘Get her away from here,’ Mun growled. Tom nodded, gently lifting Martha to her feet, then led her off across the field towards Isaac and the waiting horses.
For a moment Mun watched them go, then he turned towards the bellowing crowd, seeking anonymity again, though it was too late for that, as George Green convulsed like a fish on a hook.
‘It’s done then. One less bloody papist,’ a man said flatly.
In the nearby elms the rooks continued their raucous conversation and it struck Mun how much the sound resembled the tumbling tide on a pebbly shore. But there was no ocean here, just bleak rolling hills and muddy trackways and snow that was settling properly now, dulling the edges of all sound. He smelt wood smoke and looked over to see that the men had at last nurtured a flame within the heart of the furze, though it was as yet fragile and could be extinguished by a good gust. He glanced around him at the leering, frozen faces until he found his father, whose eyes were already locked on him. Then Sir Francis shook his head dismally. Because George Green was still alive.
‘Show some mercy!’ someone yelled. ‘Pull on ’is damned legs!’
‘No mercy for papists!’ a woman screamed in reply.
‘Let ’im dance!’ a farmer bellowed and Mun recognized the man as one of his father’s tenants.
Then, peering through the whirling snow, Sheriff Thurloe called for John Waller to make himself known. A murmur rose from the crowd, some repeating Waller’s name, and then, reluctantly it seemed to Mun, a thin, ill-looking man slunk from the throng. One arm shielding his face from the blizzard, this Waller tramped through the thickening mantle, spindly legs making hard work of it as he bent into an icy gust. He had a sailcloth knapsack slung across his back and Mun heard a man announce proudly that Waller had trimmed his hair and beard that very morning.
‘I hope you dudn’d pay him,’ someone teased.
‘I’d not have the fellow near
me
with a razor!’ a portly man said. ‘I’d fear him dropping dead and slicing me damned neck!’
For Waller was a barber, though it was not for his skill and eye for a good beard-trimming that Sheriff Thurloe had summoned him to Gallows Ledge. Not that he wouldn’t have been among the spectators anyway, even on such a day as this, Mun supposed.
George Green had stopped his thrashing, though his legs still twitched now and then and his eyes bulged wildly, accusing everything they looked upon. His mouth was a bloody rictus twist, teeth puncturing his tongue which was horribly bloated. Straddling the gallows above him, his composure regained, the hangman sawed a knife through the taut rope and Green dropped five feet to the snow. There was a collective gasp as Sheriff Thurloe bent and held a hand before Green’s mouth to check if he was still breathing. Then the minister coughed and Thurloe started, snatching his hand away, so that the crowd laughed at him and he flushed crimson beneath his snow-covered hat.
‘Earn your pay, Mister Waller,’ Thurloe commanded with a grimace, stepping back and waving a gloved hand at the man lying still as a corpse in the snow. But not a corpse, Mun knew. Not yet.
The barber nodded and, pulling off
‘There ’e goes!’ a man yelled.
‘Swing, yer bastard!’ another spectator screeched.
‘Get her away,’ Thurloe commanded one of his men, but Martha had already turned her back on the gallows and was walking towards Tom, her eyes on his. Only his. The crowd cheered as George Green’s legs thrashed wildly and the hangman clung on desperately to the shaking gallows, a grimace splitting his bushy beard.
Martha stumbled and fell to her knees, retching, and then Tom and Mun were there and Tom took off his cloak and put it round her shoulders and Mun saw the girl’s anguish reflected in his brother’s eyes.
‘What have I done?’ Martha asked, staring at Tom, then at Mun.
‘Get her away from here,’ Mun growled. Tom nodded, gently lifting Martha to her feet, then led her off across the field towards Isaac and the waiting horses.
For a moment Mun watched them go, then he turned towards the bellowing crowd, seeking anonymity again, though it was too late for that, as George Green convulsed like a fish on a hook.
‘It’s done then. One less bloody papist,’ a man said flatly.
In the nearby elms the rooks continued their raucous conversation and it struck Mun how much the sound resembled the tumbling tide on a pebbly shore. But there was no ocean here, just bleak rolling hills and muddy trackways and snow that was settling properly now, dulling the edges of all sound. He smelt wood smoke and looked over to see that the men had at last nurtured a flame within the heart of the furze, though it was as yet fragile and could be extinguished by a good gust. He glanced around him at the leering, frozen faces until he found his father, whose eyes were already locked on him. Then Sir Francis shook his head dismally. Because George Green was still alive.
‘Show some mercy!’ someone yelled. ‘Pull on ’is damned legs!’
‘No mercy for papists!’ a woman screamed in reply.
‘Let ’im dance!’ a farmer bellowed and Mun recognized the man as one of his father’s tenants.
Then, peering through the whirling snow, Sheriff Thurloe called for John Waller to make himself known. A murmur rose from the crowd, some repeating Waller’s name, and then, reluctantly it seemed to Mun, a thin, ill-looking man slunk from the throng. One arm shielding his face from the blizzard, this Waller tramped through the thickening mantle, spindly legs making hard work of it as he bent into an icy gust. He had a sailcloth knapsack slung across his back and Mun heard a man announce proudly that Waller had trimmed his hair and beard that very morning.
‘I hope you dudn’d pay him,’ someone teased.
‘I’d not have the fellow near
me
with a razor!’ a portly man said. ‘I’d fear him dropping dead and slicing me damned neck!’
For Waller was a barber, though it was not for his skill and eye for a good beard-trimming that Sheriff Thurloe had summoned him to Gallows Ledge. Not that he wouldn’t have been among the spectators anyway, even on such a day as this, Mun supposed.
George Green had stopped his thrashing, though his legs still twitched now and then and his eyes bulged wildly, accusing everything they looked upon. His mouth was a bloody rictus twist, teeth puncturing his tongue which was horribly bloated. Straddling the gallows above him, his composure regained, the hangman sawed a knife through the taut rope and Green dropped five feet to the snow. There was a collective gasp as Sheriff Thurloe bent and held a hand before Green’s mouth to check if he was still breathing. Then the minister coughed and Thurloe started, snatching his hand away, so that the crowd laughed at him and he flushed crimson beneath his snow-covered hat.
‘Earn your pay, Mister Waller,’ Thurloe commanded with a grimace, stepping back and waving a gloved hand at the man lying still as a corpse in the snow. But not a corpse, Mun knew. Not yet.
The barber nodded and, pulling off
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