understood anything. Apparently she had understood his
early morning command, for she was no place in sight.
He
gripped his unsteady hands together, closed his eyes against the foul odor
creeping out from the opened door of the Keep. With his eyes closed, he felt
dizzy and moved to the handrailing, leaning against it for support When he
opened his eyes, he saw a sea of white linen, all the witnesses covering their
noses against the odor which completely conquered the rain smells left on the
air. The silence of the courtyard persisted, interrupted by coughings as the
poisonous air spread. But no one turned their backs on the door of the Keep.
Was she still alive?
What
was taking them so long? Ragland squinted impatiently across at the Keep
doorway. Again he glanced up toward Lord Eden's window. He tried to look closer
when suddenly a sharp gasp from the waiting crowd drew his attention back to
the doorway.
There,
hanging limp between the two guards, fairly collapsed on her knees, her long
fair hair obscuring her face, the folds of her dress hanging loosely about her
feet, was Marianne.
She had survived. There still was life. Perhaps God would be merciful and
permit her to stay passed out. But he heard a sharp collective intake of breath
like the wind rising and saw the girl standing erect, pulling away from the
rough hands of her guards, her face upturned, the attitude of one preparing the
audience for a miracle.
Erect
and standing on her own strength, she led the way down the stairs. She did not
smile, but there was something in her step which defied the occasion, a
straightforwardness as though she knew precisely what she must do, and was now
presenting herself to the spectators as a "picture" forever arranged.
Ragland
watched with the others as she made the long walk, knowing with them that he
was witnessing something unusual. He saw her approach the whipping oak as
though it were little more than a Maypole and this was the most incredible of
all—approach Jack Spade with a small white extended hand.
She
spoke, her voice light as the breeze though carrying effortlessly in the
enclosed courtyard. "Good morning, Jack. I hope you are well."
Under
the duress of the moment, Ragland saw the large, greatly feared man turn away
and throw his whip to the ground.
Then
Spade must have seen something at the window of the upper bedchamber, for
within the moment Ragland saw him straighten himself, retrieve his whip, and go
about his business for which he was fed, clothed, and housed. . . .
In
all her careful planning, she underestimated one small matter—the oceanic
distance, under certain circumstances, between one and ten.
Everything
else was exactly as she imagined it, precisely as she rehearsed it. She knew
the sun, after the dark night's confinement, would be blinding. And it was. She
knew that the first breath of clean air would be painful in her lungs. And it
was. She knew she probably would experience a moment of weakness. And she did.
But she knew too that she would recover, and that in order to execute the long
walk around the inner courtyard and the approach to the whipping oak, she would
have to prevent her vision from making direct eye contact with anyone in the
arena. And this she did by merely lifting her head and concentrating on the
high stone wall finding in the stone the colors of potpourri, dried rose petals
mixed with the gray of lavender. She knew she would greet Jack Spade and that
the greeting would undo him, knew too that he would recover and go about his
task with admirable dispatch.
She
knew and thus was ready for the guards when they pressed her against the oak,
obliged them readily when they ordered her to embrace it, was completely
prepared when the hemp was twisted about her wrists, then her ankles. She
turned her face to one side in the close bondage and could smell the pungent
tar, could feel the bark cutting into her skin. But she had prepared
early morning command, for she was no place in sight.
He
gripped his unsteady hands together, closed his eyes against the foul odor
creeping out from the opened door of the Keep. With his eyes closed, he felt
dizzy and moved to the handrailing, leaning against it for support When he
opened his eyes, he saw a sea of white linen, all the witnesses covering their
noses against the odor which completely conquered the rain smells left on the
air. The silence of the courtyard persisted, interrupted by coughings as the
poisonous air spread. But no one turned their backs on the door of the Keep.
Was she still alive?
What
was taking them so long? Ragland squinted impatiently across at the Keep
doorway. Again he glanced up toward Lord Eden's window. He tried to look closer
when suddenly a sharp gasp from the waiting crowd drew his attention back to
the doorway.
There,
hanging limp between the two guards, fairly collapsed on her knees, her long
fair hair obscuring her face, the folds of her dress hanging loosely about her
feet, was Marianne.
She had survived. There still was life. Perhaps God would be merciful and
permit her to stay passed out. But he heard a sharp collective intake of breath
like the wind rising and saw the girl standing erect, pulling away from the
rough hands of her guards, her face upturned, the attitude of one preparing the
audience for a miracle.
Erect
and standing on her own strength, she led the way down the stairs. She did not
smile, but there was something in her step which defied the occasion, a
straightforwardness as though she knew precisely what she must do, and was now
presenting herself to the spectators as a "picture" forever arranged.
Ragland
watched with the others as she made the long walk, knowing with them that he
was witnessing something unusual. He saw her approach the whipping oak as
though it were little more than a Maypole and this was the most incredible of
all—approach Jack Spade with a small white extended hand.
She
spoke, her voice light as the breeze though carrying effortlessly in the
enclosed courtyard. "Good morning, Jack. I hope you are well."
Under
the duress of the moment, Ragland saw the large, greatly feared man turn away
and throw his whip to the ground.
Then
Spade must have seen something at the window of the upper bedchamber, for
within the moment Ragland saw him straighten himself, retrieve his whip, and go
about his business for which he was fed, clothed, and housed. . . .
In
all her careful planning, she underestimated one small matter—the oceanic
distance, under certain circumstances, between one and ten.
Everything
else was exactly as she imagined it, precisely as she rehearsed it. She knew
the sun, after the dark night's confinement, would be blinding. And it was. She
knew that the first breath of clean air would be painful in her lungs. And it
was. She knew she probably would experience a moment of weakness. And she did.
But she knew too that she would recover, and that in order to execute the long
walk around the inner courtyard and the approach to the whipping oak, she would
have to prevent her vision from making direct eye contact with anyone in the
arena. And this she did by merely lifting her head and concentrating on the
high stone wall finding in the stone the colors of potpourri, dried rose petals
mixed with the gray of lavender. She knew she would greet Jack Spade and that
the greeting would undo him, knew too that he would recover and go about his
task with admirable dispatch.
She
knew and thus was ready for the guards when they pressed her against the oak,
obliged them readily when they ordered her to embrace it, was completely
prepared when the hemp was twisted about her wrists, then her ankles. She
turned her face to one side in the close bondage and could smell the pungent
tar, could feel the bark cutting into her skin. But she had prepared
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