Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [167]
He cringed at the thought.
There was nothing wrong with Rhona Davies. She was strong and sturdy, though with rather more sharpness of wit than he liked in a woman. Just a little like Mary Saunders, he thought, and felt hatred rise up to swamp him.
He stared at the fresh white scaffold, and the coil of rope on the platform. He must watch carefully and commit the coming scene to his mind's eye: the witch squatting in her cart, the noose of justice hoisting her into the air. His memory was not what it used to be; already the details of his life with Jane were beginning to fray around the edges. Already he couldn't see his wife's face as it had been, only the clammy mask she left behind her, edged with brown blood. Surely the coming scene was not one he'd ever lose, though? Every bone in his body cried out for the girl's death. Surely when Mary Saunders's body was burnt to ash, some trapped nerve in him would be relieved, some hole in the world sealed up?
Just about every prisoner in Monmouth Gaol offered Mary a swig from his bottle; it was a tradition. She was soused by the time she climbed onto the cart outside the gaol. She felt no fear.
She held her hands out with a child's obedience, and the hangman tied her wrists in front of her. His mask hid all his features but a shock of red hair and a weak chin; she didn't know him. He was no Thomas Turlis, Master of Tyburn, that much was clear. This fellow was probably a farmer; maybe the only things he had killed before were pigs and foxes. She hoped he knew how to hang a girl.
The spires and roofs of Monmouth caught the first rays of light and bent them. For a moment, as she lurched along, the wheel of the year seemed to have rolled back and Mary was a stranger, newly come to town in John Niblett's wagon. A pretty enough place, she thought idly. She could be happy here...
She wasn't too drunk to know where the cart was taking her, this fine spring morning, but she was just drunk enough to convince herself she didn't care. Unaccustomed to motion, she thought she might be sick over the side of the cart. But the Queen of Scots would never have done that on her way to execution, Mary told herself, making her mistress's little cluck of disapproval.
It wasn't far at all: Hereford Road, Monk Street, Whitecross Street, Stepney Street. When they turned the last corner, the cart lurched into a hole, and a splinter pricked Mary's knee. She pulled away, and with her bound hands she managed to tuck her skirt around her, between her legs and the harsh wood. Only then did it strike her as peculiar to be cossetting a body that would be dead before noon.
The Market Square was choked with people. For a moment, Mary, staring over the edge of the wagon, wondered if today was some festival; had Easter come early this year? Then a tentative roar went up at the sight of the cart and she realised, with a peculiar thrill, that they were all there for her.
The good people of Monmouth needed to see her hang, even if it cost them a day's pay. Their faces were tense with anticipation. They looked at her as if they'd never seen her before. She recognised a handful of servants she knew to talk to, and quite a few of the patrons—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, and the two old Misses Roberts in their sedan chairs, even. And a lot of strangers, besides, who must have travelled here for the day. But it wasn't like a Tyburn crowd, full of whores and tourists so used to the sight that it barely made them laugh. Mary would have laid a bet that most of these folks in Monmouth Square had never seen anyone swing before.
When the driver got down, the crowd engulfed the cart. A small girl on her father's shoulders grinned up at the prisoner. Mary could smell orange peel and hot spice cakes and an open barrel of ale. Everyone was dressed in their best; hats were bright with ribbons. The mood wasn't one of revelry, though; most faces looked tense, unsatisfied.
There's something in you that'll never be satisfied till you swing,