Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [211]
“Hanging, drawing, and quartering,” Jamie said briefly. “That’s what you mean, of course, Monsieur Forez?”
The hangman nodded. Jamie rose to his feet, as though against his will, facing the gaunt, black-clad visitor. They were much of a height, and could look each other in the face without difficulty. Monsieur Forez took a step toward Jamie, expression suddenly abstracted, as though he were about to make a demonstration of some medical point.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, that is the traitor’s death. First, the man must be hanged, as you say, but with a nice judgment, so that the neck is not broken, nor the windpipe crushed—suffocation is not the desired result, you understand.”
“Oh, I understand.” Jamie’s voice was soft, with an almost mocking edge, and I glanced at him in bewilderment.
“Do you, Monsieur?” Monsieur Forez smiled faintly, but went on without waiting for an answer. “It is a matter of timing then; you judge by the eyes. The face will darken with blood almost immediately—more quickly if the subject is of fair complexion—and as choking proceeds, the tongue is forced from the mouth. That is what delights the crowds, of course, as well as the popping eyes. But you watch for the signs of redness at the corners of the eyes, as the small blood vessels burst. When that happens, you must give at once the signal for the subject to be cut down—a dependable assistant is indispensable, you understand,” he half-turned, to include me in this macabre conversation, and I nodded, despite myself.
“Then,” he continued, turning back to Jamie, “you must administer at once a stimulant, to revive the subject while the shirt is being removed—you must insist that a shirt opening down the front is provided; often it is difficult to get them off over the head.” One long, slender finger reached out, pointing at the middle button of Jamie’s shirt, but not quite touching the fresh-starched linen.
“I would suppose so,” Jamie said.
Monsieur Forez retracted the finger, nodding in approval at this evidence of comprehension.
“Just so. The assistant will have kindled the fire beforehand; this is beneath the dignity of the executioner. And then the time of the knife is at hand.”
There was a dead silence in the room. Jamie’s face was still set in inscrutability, but a slight moisture gleamed on the side of his neck.
“It is here that the utmost of skill is required,” Monsieur Forez explained, raising a finger in admonition. “You must work quickly, lest the subject expire before you have finished. Mixing a dose with the stimulant which constricts the blood vessels will give you a few moments’ grace, but not much.”
Spotting a silver letter-opener on the table, he crossed to it and picked it up. He held it with his hand wrapped about the hilt, forefinger braced on top of the blade, pointed down at the shining walnut of the tabletop.
“Just there,” he said, almost dreamily. “At the base of the breastbone. And quickly, to the crest of the groin. You can see the bone easily in most cases. Again”—and the letter opener flashed to one side and then the other, quick and delicate as the zigzag flight of a hummingbird—“following the arch of the ribs. You must not cut deeply, for you do not wish to puncture the sac which encloses the entrails. Still, you must get through skin, fat, and muscle, and do it with one stroke. This,” he said with satisfaction, gazing down at his own reflection in the tabletop, “is artistry.”
He laid the knife gently on the table, and turned back to Jamie. He shrugged pleasantly.
“After that, it is a matter of speed and some dexterity, but if you have been exact in your methods, it will present little difficulty. The entrails are sealed within a membrane, you see, resembling a bag. If you have not severed this by accident, it is a simple matter, needing only a little strength, to force your hands beneath the muscular layer and pull free the entire mass. A quick cut at stomach and anus”—he glanced disparagingly