3. TO THE BLOCK ...
The tumbril turns a corner. Directly ahead lies the town market square … still some distance ahead, but clearly visible from my vantage point high in the front of the cart. A huge crowd has already gathered on the square; the narrow road ahead is choked with even more townsfolk making their way to the scene of my execution.
With no room for passage, the tumbril comes to an abrupt halt. Thrown forward against the wooden rail, I manage to arrest my fall at the last moment by grasping at it with my bound hands. I am naked from the waist up ... the tattered remains of my night shirt wound around and hanging from my hips, my feet in irons linked together by a short chain. Righting myself, I regain my footing and peer ahead.
A high wooden scaffold dominates the far side of the square. I can make out a number of people moving about on it, presumably engaged in preparations for the morning’s executions. The crowd is in a festive mood. Vendors sell food and drink, clowns and jesters perform, thieves mingle, the hubbub of voices and movement combine to give the scene the look of an immense swarm of locusts milling about.
The helmeted pike men detailed to escort my tumbril on its snaking route through the town hustle forward, intent on clearing a path through the milling throng. Meanwhile two hooded men clamber aboard, turn me about, shove me to the rear of the cart and pass me down into the hands of their comrades down on the pavement.
These men, spin me around again and tie the loose end of the length of rope binding my wrists together securely to the back of the cart. I ask what is happening and am brusquely told that I am to walk the rest of the way ... under the lash!
Soon all is ready. The drummer resumes his rattling cadence. The crowd parts before the advancing phalanx of pike men, and the tumbril lurches forward, pulling on my rope. My arms fly out and I stumble forward, slightly bent at the waist, breasts swaying and wobbling as I stagger along ... much to the delight of the gang of young louts striding alongside, pointing and crudely joking at the unaccustomed sight of such public nakedness.
One of my handlers follows behind. Every few paces he applies his whip to my bare back. I flinch and cry out with each stinging bite of the lash, and weave about in a vain attempt to evade the next one. I am spat on and poked at whenever I come too close to the mass of onlookers lining my path.
Slowly we make our way to the square and finally come to a halt before the scaffolding. I am released from the tumbril. I ascend to the scaffold to the raucous cheers, catcalls and jeers of the crowd, which now presses in close to the scaffold, jostling for position to witness the coming show.
Already on the scaffold are the Witchfinder General, the Lord Mayor, and the local bishop. Also there already, are my three closest friends ... the sweet blonde girl from down the lane, the dark-haired woman who works in my father's shop, and my family's young Irish maid servant. Like me, all three have been stripped to the waist. Their hands are tied behind their backs, their feet are shackled, and they have been blindfolded with lengths of black cloth tied behind their heads.
At the front of the scaffold stands a heavy wooden block with a darkly-stained depression scooped out from the surface of its top side, and a wicker basket sitting nearby. Next to the block and basket, a bare-chested giant of a man wearing a black hood ... the town executioner ... leans patiently on the infamous "Witchfinder's Axe".
I am shoved into line with the other three, and forced to face the crowd. I bend forward, shuffling my feet nervously as my wrists are unbound, pinioned behind my back, and re-bound. No one bothers to offer me a blindfold.
Off to one side, three drummers take up their drums and begin beating out a call for attention. The restive crowd gradually quiets, and silence fills the market square, save for a few sporadic whistles and lewd catcalls.
The Witchfinder General steps forward to address the assemblage, self-importantly reminding everyone of his holy mission to root out the work of the devil wherever it may be found, and announcing the first triumph of his work in their town. He tells the hushed crowd that they are about to witness the public execution of the first of many witches in their midst that he is certain that he will expose in the coming weeks ... namely, one Barbara Moore and her coven of three who have together made common cause with Satan ... and all of whom have confessed and have been thereby condemned by the absolute authority vested in him, the Witchfinder General, to public execution.
The crowd erupts in thunderous applause and shouts of approval roll like waves across the square. As I look out and scan their eager, upturned faces, I recognize so many neighbors, acquaintances, regular patrons of my father's shop ... people who know me, people to whom I have spoken, even laughed with ... now turned out to scorn and revile me, leer unashamedly at my near-nakedness, and exult in anticipation of my horrible end.
With a roll of the drums, the first execution is about to begin. Two hooded assistants to the executioner select the dark-haired shop assistant whom I have come to know and regard as a close friend, and shove her forward toward the chopping block. She was always a quiet one, working diligently in the shop, but always friendly and kind to me. Now, because of me she must die horribly, here in front of everyone.
She shuffles forward to the block, the shackles around her ankles rustling, and is brought to a standstill, still facing the crowd … the excitement and eagerness of which she cannot see through her blindfold. The remains of her night shirt, which is wrapped modestly around her hips in the same manner as my own, is abruptly torn away, leaving her completely naked. A great roar ripples through the crowd.
They turn her sideways to face the waiting chopping block, and press her down on her knees. Her lips move nervously. She declares softly and resignedly to the executioner, who has come over to tie her dark tresses up on her head in order to bare her neck, “I have no choice.”
He gently pushes her upper body forward until she leans well out over the block, her hanging breasts touching and bulging slightly against its edge. Pressing down on her bare shoulders, the executioner settles her head and neck into position against the gentle scoop carved into the top surface of the block. He moves quickly off to one side and picks up the axe.
The drum rolling swells to a crescendo, as he takes careful aim, momentarily resting the gleaming razor-sharp edge over the nape of her slender neck, then raising the axe swiftly over his head, and bringing it back down with one swift and mighty motion.
To the tumultuous cheers of the crowd, he bends over, reaches into the wicker basket and holds her severed head high by the hair for all to see. Her nude, still quivering, corpse is dragged off to one side, blood gushing from the stump of its neck.
His henchmen return to where we stand, and reach for the young Irish maid servant.
TO BE CONTINUED
