HANGING AROUND

by

Edward Stasheff

 

 

            The executions continued, and would for quite a while.

            Matt knew this, was prepared for this, as his horse galloped through the gates of the royal castle in Bordestang.  He'd become used to the crowds, the dull roar of an angry mob, the stench of rotten eggs and vegetables… and the gallows.  So when he noticed the gallows was missing, it caught his attention.  Instead, Matt looked up to see a mound of wooden faggots hip-high, a tall pole rising from its center with a woman lashed to it.  Matt noticed the difference, understood its significance, and shuddered.

            "Oh, no, not again!" Matt swore under his breath as he dismounted, handing the reins to a stable groom.  However grisly it was, hanging was at least somewhat humane, providing a death that was both quick and painless.  Burning provided neither.  Matt slapped the dust from his clothes as he circled around the crowd, looking for whoever was in charge. 

Well… other than the Queen, of course.  Alisande sat in a small throne upon a short scaffold, just high enough for all in the crowd to see her, waiting for her to pronounce judgment upon the accused.  A private word with her right now was impossible.

Matt finally found the Duke of Montmartre, the closest thing the Merovencian court had to a state prosecutor, presiding over the event.  The old man was orchestrating affairs in the background while a priest on the dais tried to scream over the crowd, reading the charges leveled again the woman.  Matt strode past the ring of Queen's Guards surrounding the execution grounds—none dared challenge Her Majesty's Wizard—and ambled up next to Montmartre. 

Matt leaned toward him and said in the softest voice he could bellow, "What’s the bonfire for, Montmartre?  I thought Malingo's sorcerers were being hanged."

"Those that recant but are convicted of other crimes, aye," the old man nodded, arms folded across his chest.

"Oh."  Matt absorbed the implications.  His face fell.  "She wouldn't recant?"

"Wouldn't recant," Montmartre confirmed. 

Matt gazed up at the bound and gagged woman, a plump matron of middle years, and shook his head.  "The poor fool."

"She thinks that by keeping faith with Satan, she'll be rewarded in hell."  Montmartre never looked at Matt, staring dead ahead, a mask of forced indifference on his face.  "And the sentence for witchcraft is purification by fire."

"Burning at the stake?" Matt asked, exasperated.  "Oh, come on!  What is this, the Middle Ages?"  Then he remembered.  "Oh.  That's right.  It is."

            Matt knew right there and then that he couldn’t talk these people out of it.  They lived in a world where the struggles between good and evil, God and Satan, were frighteningly real.  There were few shades of gray, the rules clearly defined, as were the punishments for breaking them.  Asking them not to burn the sorceress was like asking them to slit their own throats—and with no better chance of success.       

Matt could only watch helplessly as soldiers removed the sorceress's gag, giving her one last chance to speak against the charges leveled against her.  What followed was the longest chain of shrieked curses Matt had ever heard, followed by a roar from the mob and a hail of rotten food.  The soldiers quickly wrestled the gag back into the woman's mouth with a speed born of fear—sorcerers couldn’t be allowed to speak, even for a moment.  The priest turned toward Alisande, awaiting her verdict.  The Queen slowly rose from her throne, and a hush of anticipation rippled through the mob.

“By her own admission,” Alisande called out to the crowd, “the accused has been found guilty of sorcery, and senten—“

Whatever else she had to say was drowned by a triumphant roar from the mob.  Soldiers thrust torches into the mound of pitch-soaked faggots under the sorceress.  The sticks caught fire quickly, and tendrils of smoke rose from the pyre.  The crowd cheered and the blizzard of putrid produce began anew.  Alisande, her role in the drama over, swept from the dais and out of the courtyard.

"By the way, Lord Wizard," Montmartre said, watching the scene with a wooden expression, "the Queen wishes to see us when the execution is over."

“It’s over for me,” Matt declared, turning to go.  “No point in watching the whole thing—I already know how it ends.  Let's go see Alisande."

Montmartre turned to follow Matt, mute but perhaps glad himself for an excuse to leave the necessary but ugly scene.  They paused long enough to find Montmartre’s son, the Marquis Sauvignon, and leave him in charge.  Then the pair crossed the courtyard in silence, listening to the sorceress's muffled screams of rage and hatred… then, eventually, just her screams.

 

"This has been going on for months!" Matt complained as they strode through the castle hallways.  "How many more prisoners are left?"

"I know not, Lord Wizard," Montmartre sighed, shaking his head.  "The dungeons do fill faster than we can empty them."

"Yeah… I know."  Matt frowned.  "I mean, I knew there would be some traitors and collaborators who got the death penalty after a civil war… but this many?  I don't know, Montmartre…"

"The queen's amnesty was most generous," the gray-haired man reminded him gently.  "The usurper's soldiers and sergeants, the bailiffs, the scribes, the servants, the—"

"I know, I know," Matt said, scowling.  "But I still wonder… is this about law, or the mob outside?"

"The people suffered under the usurper's reign, Sir Matthew," Montmartre said, "and some most harshly.  They want justice.  It is our duty to provide it."

"Justice?  Or vengeance?"

"To them, it is one and the same," Montmartre sighed.  "It is only such as we, who dispense justice, that need worry about such distinctions."  He frowned and looked down.  "It is best we not forget that."

That killed the conversation for a while.

“How many have been executed so far?” Matt finally asked.

Montmartre thought for a moment, then answered, “Mayhap two score.  At least half of them former sorcerers." 

            “Makes sense, I suppose,” Matt sighed.  “They were Malingo's most loyal followers—you know, what with owing their power and position to him and all that stuff—so they were the ones he trusted to carry out his dirty work.”

            “Aye,” Montmartre nodded gravely.  "So even those who do recant—“

“Which is most,” Matt interjected.

“—are yet guilty of other crimes,” Montmartre continued.  “And they must answer for those crimes, here on earth as in heaven.  Thus, most sorcerers go to the gallows, repentant or not.”  Montmarte sighed.  "When the Queen declared shriven sorcerers be spared the noose, I did think we'd be shoulder-deep in sorcerers.  Mayhap I was mistaken."

"Yeah.  Well, not surprising, really."  Matt shrugged.  "Saving sorcerers wasn't really the point of that edict anyway."

Montmartre stopped abruptly and stared at Matthew, scowling.  "Was it not?"

"Oh no.  That was to keep people from settling old grudges by fingering a rival as a sorcerer, even if it was a lie."  Matt spread his hands.  "Either the accused is proven innocent and goes free, or is found guilty, recants, and—as they've committed no other crime—goes free anyway." 

Montmartre just blinked at him, incredulous. 

"I have to admit," Matt continued, "it was a smart move on Alisande's part.  Bit of political genius, really." 

            "Indeed…" Montmartre nodded, thinking, then turned and resumed walking.

            The reached the doors to the Queen's solar chamber and waited while one of the Queen's Guard stepped inside to announce their arrival.  A moment later he returned.

            "Her Majesty will see you now," he said.  The two guards threw open the doors, and Matt and Montmartre stepped inside.

            Matt knew the protocol by heart.  As one, the two men dropped to one knee, heads bowed, fists over their hearts.

            "Your Majesty," they said in unison.

            Queen Alisande rose and crossed to them.  "Lord Wizard," she said to Matt, holding out her hand.  Matt took it and kissed her fingers.  Alisande repeated the symbolic gesture with Montmartre, bid them rise, and turned to a table cluttered with parchments.  The windows, normally open, were shut against the roar of the mob below.

            "You wished to see us, your Majesty?" Montmartre said.

            “Indeed I do,” the Queen replied, sifting through parchments.  “’Tis about the executions of sorcerers… and one in particular.”

            “I fear we cannot delay them any longer, Majesty,” Montmartre said, trying hard to keep exasperation out of his voice and failing.  “We did hope that dragging out the trials would dull the people’s appetite for blood—but it seems only to have whetted it instead!”

            “I understand that,” Alisande said, a hint of iron in her voice, “and I have every intention of punishing the guilty.”  She paused, picking up a parchment, and gazed at the perfectly inked calligraphy.  “I also intend to be completely certain of their guilt before sending them to the gallows… or the stake,” she said, glancing out the window at the plume of oily black smoke drifting past.  She turned to Matt and Montmartre.  “This sorcerer’s case doth trouble me—that of your former apprentice, Lord Wizard.”

            “He wasn’t my apprentice!” Matt snapped, perhaps a bit more vehemently than was strictly necessary.  Having been so thoroughly fooled by an ex-sorcerer was a still a sore point for him.

            Alisande raised an eyebrow.  “Was he not?”

            “No,” Matt said firmly.  “We never had time for the initiation ceremony, so technically, he was never my apprentice.”  The Merovencians had ceremonies for absolutely everything, and put great stock in them.  Although Matt usually found them annoying, in this case he was glad of it.

            “Nevertheless, his case worries me,” Alisande replied, ignoring Matt’s argument.  “The prisoner wrote to me, and did plead his case most eloquently.  He claimed—“

            “He wrote to you?”  Montmartre repeated, amazed at the audacity of the man. 

            “Sorcerers are not permitted to speak,” Alisande replied, “most especially in the presence of the monarch.  So he did write instead.” She looked down at the letter in her hand.  “He professes his innocence, explains his actions.  I find his story most… persuasive.”

            Matt and Montmartre exchanged a quick glance.  The Queen noticed.

            “You disagree?”

            “With respect, Majesty,” Montmartre said, “they all have a story.  I have yet to hear a one that is true.”

            “We’re talking about people who sold their souls to Satan for power,” Matt said.  “Lying comes as naturally to them as breathing.”

“And is his?” Alisande asked.

Montmartre frowned.  “Is his what, Majesty?”

“Is his story true?  Or false?”

Montmartre and Matt exchanged another glance.  They were silent.

“You have not examined it,” Alisande said with certainty.

“Majesty, the case against him is clear,” Montmartre said.  “There is nothing to examine.”

            “He was one of Malingo’s Bloodhound teams—the sorcerers who tracked down and killed priests," Matt argued.  "When Father DuVois resisted arrest, over two dozen witnesses saw Ortho kill the good priest—and that was after he killed his own sorcerer partner!”

            “And why, Lord Matthew, did he kill his partner?”  Alisande fixed him with a stare, demanding an answer.

            Matt was silent.  He’d wondered that himself, actually.  He assumed it was some sort of personal dispute—rivalry or jealously over a woman or something.  None of the witnesses seemed to know for sure.  Matt shifted tactics.

            “Your Majesty,” he began slowly, “I’m just not sure that this is… the most effective use of our resources.”

            The Queen stared at him in silence for moment.  “You have not the time for it," she said with absolute certainty.

            “Alisande, you know how busy I am…”

            The Queen turned and grabbed some parchments off the table.  “I have signed three death warrants this morning alone!” she shouted, holding the parchments out to him, crumpled in a clenched fist.  “Do you know why executions must be approved or pardoned by the sovereign?”

            “Um… no,” Matt replied.  Frankly, he was cowed.  Alisande rarely raised her voice—and when she did, it was a sign of soul-crushing stress.

            “So if an innocent man goes to the gallows,” Alisande answered, “the sin is mine, and mine alone!  My lords only follow orders—as any loyal subject should!  No, the murder is a burden for my soul to bear, in the stead of my people.  It is I who will answer for it at the gates of heaven, none other!  So you’ll understand, Lord Wizard,” Alisande spat, somehow turning his title into an insult, “that if there is a chance—any chance at all!—that this man is innocent, I do wish to be absolutely certain of his guilt before I send him to his death!” 

            Silence dominated the room.  Montmartre did his best to blend into the tapestry behind him.  Matt blinked at Alisande, chewing over her words.

Sure, Matt would love to save an innocent from an unjust death—but why did it have to be the only ex-sorcerer he wouldn’t mind seeing hanged?  Still, Matt could plainly see the pain on Alisande’s face, the indecision, the stress of holding a life in her hands she wasn’t sure she had the right to take.  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one having doubts about the number of executions taking place. 

Well, if looking into Ortho’s case would ease Alisande’s conscience, even a little, then it was something Matt was willing to do for his sovereign… and friend..

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Matt finally nodded.  “I understand.”

            "Then the two of you will examine the scribe's story?"

            "Yes, your Majesty," Matt and Montmartre said in unison.

            Alisande turned to look out her window at the mob and bonfire in the courtyard below.  "Many peasants of Monteville—Father DuVois's village—have traveled to Bordestang to witness the sorcerer's death on the morrow.  I can delay the execution a day, perhaps a little longer, but no more." 

Matt knew Alisande was an astute politician—sure, she was an absolute monarch, but also smart enough to know she could try her subjects’ patience only so long before losing their loyalty and support.

            "That’s barely two days," Montmartre muttered under his breath.

            Alisande heard it anyway.  She turned back to them.  "Well, then you had best not waste any time," she replied.  "Start by hearing the prisoner's story."

 

            Matt and Montmartre descended into the dungeons under the castle, escorted by the jailer and two heavily armed and very nervous soldiers of the Queen's Guard.  Satanic sorcerers were fairly harmless as long as they were gagged… but if you wanted to question them…

            Matt stopped the jailer right before he shoved a key into the lock of Ortho's cell.  "Hold on a sec," Matt said in a soft voice.  "It's best if I cast the truth spell before the prisoner knows we're here," he explained.  "A sorcerer can't counter a spell he doesn't even know is placed on him."  Matt cleared his throat.

 

"This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man."

 

            Matt knew it wasn't the best truth spell—Shakespeare was metered, but not rhymed, and that verse wasn't terribly specific.  Still, it was the best he'd been able to come up with, given his jam-packed schedule.  Hopefully, it would make the prisoner show his true colors, and force him to tell the truth—but Matt wouldn't automatically know if the prisoner lied or misled.  Matt still hesitated to cast spells that affected his own mind, lest he get one wrong and spend the rest of his life wearing a nice white sweater that made him hug himself, in a room with lots of pillows on the walls.

            Matt nodded to the jailor, who unlocked the door.  The soldiers entered first, crossbows cocked and raised, and took up positions on opposite sides of the room.  Matt and Montmartre followed, Matt wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell of moldering hay, body odor, and human waste.  Against the far wall was Ortho, head hanging. 

He was gagged, dirty linen tied tightly across his mouth.  His arms were chained to the walls spread-eagle so that he couldn't remove the gag.  Matt had no idea for how long the man had been standing.  The glint of something dangling from his right hand caught Matt's attention—a rosary, Ortho's thumb pushing the beads through his fingers as he prayed.  Either it was a con, or…

            Ortho looked up.  Matt instantly noticed the one purple eye swollen shut, the dried blood dribbling down his chin onto his scribe's robe. Apparently, some of the castle staff had been venting their suffering under the usurper's reign by roughing up one of its sorcerers.  Matt couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the man.

            Then, damn it, Ortho’s one open eye saw Matt and flooded with hope.

            "Listen up," Matt said.  "We're going to untie your gag.  But if you say anything that rhymes—anything—then these gentlemen with the crossbows and iron pants have orders to put some arrows through your skull.  Do you understand?"

            Ortho nodded eagerly.

            "Okay, go ahead and untie the gag."

            The jailor hesitated but ultimately did as he was told, standing from Ortho at arm's length as if sorcery were a disease and Ortho contagious.  The first thing Ortho did was spit enough to put a camel to shame, then croak out a request for water, which was granted. 

            "Oh, thank you, Lord Matthew!" Ortho said when he could.  "When I prayed to God for salvation from this cell, I knew it would be you he sent!" 

            "Well then, you'd better pray harder," Matt said, "because I'm not letting you out."  He paused, looking Ortho in the eye.  "Did you murder Father DuVois?"

            Ortho looked down in shame.  "Yes, milord… but I can explain, you see I—"

            "Were you one of Malingo's sorcerers?" Matt interrupted.  There was a long pause.

            "Well… yes… but no," Ortho said.

            "The Queen tells me you've got a story, that you can explain everything.  Is this story true?"

            "Yes, milord!" Ortho said fiercely, looking up again.  "It's God's own truth, I swear it before all the saints and angels!"

            "Are you innocent of what you're accused of?"

            "Oh, yes, milord!"

            "And can you prove it?" Matt asked.

            Ortho's face twisted in anguish.  "No, milord, I can't!  I destroyed it all, everything that pointed back to me, fool that I was!"

            "You destroyed the evidence of your own innocence?" Matt asked skeptically.

            "Aye, milord," Ortho answered, "but at the time, I had to!"

            Matt turned and cast a glance at Montmartre, who nodded back knowingly with a tiny smile.  Ortho's answer was convenient, common, and expected. 

            "All right, then, Ortho," Matt said, turning back.  "Tell us your story.  Tell us why you're innocent, but why you can't prove it."  He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms across his chest.  “Convince us.”

            "Yes, milord," Ortho said, relief evident in his voice.  "But… well, this may take some time…"

 

            Much, much later, the door to Ortho's cell swung open, and Matt and Montmartre stepped out into the hallway followed by the jailor and soldiers.  They stood around in hushed silence, not looking at each other, still thinking about what they'd just heard.

            Montmartre broke the silence. "Well… that was quite a tale.”  He shot a sideways glance at Matt.  “Is it true, Lord Wizard?"

            “It…” Matt struggled for an answer, then slowly sighed and nodded his head.  "Well, it could be true, at least.  And if is… but we can’t prove it…"

            "Then we send not just an innocent man to the noose," Montmartre finished, "but a loyal subject of the Queen, and a soldier of God." 

            Silence lingered as everyone contemplated that. 

            "Well, if we're going to get to the bottom of this," Matt said, clapping his hands to break the trance, "where do we start?"

            "The Monastery of St. Moncaire," Montmartre replied slowly.  "If they confirm what he says, then it’s probably true.  But the abbey is at least a two-day ride away, Sir Matthew.”

            “By land, yes,” Matt mused, stroking his chin, “but not by air.  I think I know someone who can help us.”  Matt turned and headed out of the dungeons.  “Let’s go see if Stegoman is in town.”

            “Dost think two days’ time will be enough to find what we seek?” Montmartre asked, following.

            “I guess it’ll have to be,” Matt answered grimly, “or Ortho hangs."

 

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