Behold A Pale Horse by Sally Spedding

Author:Sally Spedding [Spedding, Sally]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: www.publishandprint.co.uk
Published: 2017-07-26T04:00:00+00:00

XXI

'And the dragon was wroth with the woman, and went to make war with the remnant of her seed, which keep the commandments of God, and have the testimony of Jesus Christ.'

(Revelation.12.v.17.)

On the stroke of four, as Mordiern Guyon fell into a troubled asleep in the Fontcouverte woods outside Saintes, Girard Louis Corbichon's blindfolded head rolled from his body to rest at the feet of two priests still in prayer for his soul's safe passing. The crowd's roar from the scaffold and nearby windows filled the Place des Oies and lifted over the town of La Baume to taint the Autumn countryside.

A tall, black hat thrown from an upper room, lay alongside the dead knight's body, while another, stiffened and softened in turn by winter frosts and summer suns, landed on his horse. The aged Boulonnais with only a simple noose for slaughter around its massive head, reared up and charged through the rabble, dragging the executioner's old servant behind him. In the stunned aftermath, those whom The Whiteface's huge destrier had bruised and trampled, were helped to safety, whilst the remaining, unscathed revellers having quickly crossed themselves, drifted down the narrow street towards the church of St. Jean du Pouce for refreshment. But in the fast-fading light, the watchers at the windows remained transfixed by the unfolding scene near the Arche de St. Paul.

Meanwhile, the three men who’d travelled from Beaupréau, stood together drinking. Strangers to the town, they’d walked most of the way for the spectacle in La Baume. Robert Sagan, the eldest was also the heaviest, and his creased girdle was added to by a length of rope. Since his farming days in the Cotentin, he’d lost most of his hair, and both ears curled purple in the cold. But what he’d lost in hair, he’d made up in other ways and, like his two companions, had grown prosperous.

"'Tis a bad sign," he said, passing round the cup of wine. "To lose a horse ready for the fire."

"Did you see how he took Aymeric Forgue’s old servant?" Noë Roche, black as a Moor and sometimes mistaken for one, belched loudly. "As though he were light as a fart."

"That is the nature of the breed." Was all Sagan dared say, hoping Druide, now twenty-one by his calculations, would have the wit to find shelter.

"What about those two bitches?" Othon Lamaire suddenly remembered, grinning lasciviously. In the commotion they’d forgotten that Hilaire Roland's widow and daughter still stood bound together at on corner of the makeshift dais. "Let's have some sport!"

The rich wine of Libourne flowed in their veins, bearing them smartly back to the square. Three men, hardened and slightly stooped from a life on the land, stumbled to where the expectant crowd had re-formed. Where those who’d stood at the rear were now rewarded with a place so close they could reach out and pull the captives' rags. An emaciated dog circled nimbly between their legs. 'Bézu' had followed from the farm and would not desert them. His ragged, arched loins pushing in and out of the stakes tied to his owners’ bodies.

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