hanging from a strong bough, and Dunchan of Silverwater standing very still below it, balanced on a stool. A masked Enforcer stood behind him. As I watched, cold to the bone, the Enforcer slipped the noose over Dunchan’s head and drew the knot tight.
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘Oh, no.’ Dunchan’s wife was in that silent crowd, his children, his loyal servants and men-at-arms, a whole household of good people. I imagined folk hushing their little ones, fearful that a cry at the wrong time would bring down the same fate on them.
I wanted to shut my eyes. I wanted to turn away. Part of me protested: This is not my story, these are not my folk. I’ll just turn my back and walk on. I’ll pretend I didn’t see this . But I kept my eyes open, and I stood witness to the hanging of a good chieftain. When it was done, the Enforcers backed off and Dunchan’s friends cut him down. His wife knelt over him and closed his eyes. The Enforcers were keeping their distance; it seemed this one execution was all the punishment they had come to deliver. Already some of them were riding out through the gates, though five or six remained.
Silence would have saved Dunchan’s wife. She chose another path. She did not collapse on her husband’s body, weeping. She stood up, head high, and hurled defiant words at his killers. With my heart in my mouth I watched her do it, and I saw an old man fighting to keep a child – the chieftain’s little son, I guessed – from running forward as she spoke.
She was killed with a single expert stroke of the sword. Her head rolled away, coming close to the feet of the frozen onlookers. The killer gave his weapon a desultory wipe on a tuft of grass, sheathed it and spoke a few words to the crowd. The old man had his hand clapped over the child’s mouth; I saw a woman edge in front of them to shield them. No more , I willed the Enforcer. Let there be no more evil done here .
The executioner turned away, mounted his horse and headed for the gate of the settlement. He was the last of them. As he rode off down the track and out of sight, the preternatural stillness of the crowd broke. The old man released the boy. The lad did not go to his mother where she lay in her blood. He did not go to his father’s lifeless corpse. Instead, screaming out a great cry of rage and defiance, he pelted after the Enforcers, as if one boy alone could prevail against them all. Three or four men ran after him, arresting his wild progress. He fought them at first. At length he wept, and the old man, perhaps his grandfather, held him as the storm raged. Others moved to gather up the sad remains of the chieftain’s wife, to blanket Dunchan with a cloak, to tend to little ones who had seen what no child should ever see.
Time for me to move on. There was nothing I could do here, save grieve for the woeful place Alban had become. What would happen to all those folk now their lord and lady were gone? I had heard that Keldec liked to put his own favoured men in as local leaders, never mind the tradition of families and clans. Someone had to keep the smallholdings going; someone had to provide leadership in times of trouble. I wondered what Dunchan had done to earn Keldec’s disapproval: harboured a fugitive, expressed doubt about the king’s rule, used magic? This had been a good chieftain, well loved by his people. Two days’ stay had been sufficient for me to see that. As I walked on I imagined the open space within the encircling wall, empty save for the lovely bare-limbed tree. In my picture, a great patch of red stained the hard earth. A dog slunk past, giving the stain a wide berth. From within the dwellings there came the sound of weeping. And from the top of the little tower a new banner flew: the proud stag of Keldec, King of Alban.
I walked as far as I could along the loch shore before darkness forced a halt. I did not make fire. With Enforcers so close, I could not take that risk. I spent a chilly night in the
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘Oh, no.’ Dunchan’s wife was in that silent crowd, his children, his loyal servants and men-at-arms, a whole household of good people. I imagined folk hushing their little ones, fearful that a cry at the wrong time would bring down the same fate on them.
I wanted to shut my eyes. I wanted to turn away. Part of me protested: This is not my story, these are not my folk. I’ll just turn my back and walk on. I’ll pretend I didn’t see this . But I kept my eyes open, and I stood witness to the hanging of a good chieftain. When it was done, the Enforcers backed off and Dunchan’s friends cut him down. His wife knelt over him and closed his eyes. The Enforcers were keeping their distance; it seemed this one execution was all the punishment they had come to deliver. Already some of them were riding out through the gates, though five or six remained.
Silence would have saved Dunchan’s wife. She chose another path. She did not collapse on her husband’s body, weeping. She stood up, head high, and hurled defiant words at his killers. With my heart in my mouth I watched her do it, and I saw an old man fighting to keep a child – the chieftain’s little son, I guessed – from running forward as she spoke.
She was killed with a single expert stroke of the sword. Her head rolled away, coming close to the feet of the frozen onlookers. The killer gave his weapon a desultory wipe on a tuft of grass, sheathed it and spoke a few words to the crowd. The old man had his hand clapped over the child’s mouth; I saw a woman edge in front of them to shield them. No more , I willed the Enforcer. Let there be no more evil done here .
The executioner turned away, mounted his horse and headed for the gate of the settlement. He was the last of them. As he rode off down the track and out of sight, the preternatural stillness of the crowd broke. The old man released the boy. The lad did not go to his mother where she lay in her blood. He did not go to his father’s lifeless corpse. Instead, screaming out a great cry of rage and defiance, he pelted after the Enforcers, as if one boy alone could prevail against them all. Three or four men ran after him, arresting his wild progress. He fought them at first. At length he wept, and the old man, perhaps his grandfather, held him as the storm raged. Others moved to gather up the sad remains of the chieftain’s wife, to blanket Dunchan with a cloak, to tend to little ones who had seen what no child should ever see.
Time for me to move on. There was nothing I could do here, save grieve for the woeful place Alban had become. What would happen to all those folk now their lord and lady were gone? I had heard that Keldec liked to put his own favoured men in as local leaders, never mind the tradition of families and clans. Someone had to keep the smallholdings going; someone had to provide leadership in times of trouble. I wondered what Dunchan had done to earn Keldec’s disapproval: harboured a fugitive, expressed doubt about the king’s rule, used magic? This had been a good chieftain, well loved by his people. Two days’ stay had been sufficient for me to see that. As I walked on I imagined the open space within the encircling wall, empty save for the lovely bare-limbed tree. In my picture, a great patch of red stained the hard earth. A dog slunk past, giving the stain a wide berth. From within the dwellings there came the sound of weeping. And from the top of the little tower a new banner flew: the proud stag of Keldec, King of Alban.
I walked as far as I could along the loch shore before darkness forced a halt. I did not make fire. With Enforcers so close, I could not take that risk. I spent a chilly night in the
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