The Maiden of Ireland. Susan WiggsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Prologue

      Tyburn Hill, 1658

      The executioner wondered why so many women had come to watch the priest die. Were the ladies of London so bored, then, that the spectacle of a poor wretch being tortured to death lured them from their bowers?

      Thaddeus Bull scratched his head through his black hangman’s hood. He had never understood the fascination of the Londoners. Give him a pint of ale, a joint of mutton and a smiling maid; that was all the entertainment he needed.

      Strangely, these women represented every layer of society. Masked noble ladies in boxy coaches held pomander balls to their noses. Country maids in faded dresses moved their lips in silent prayer. Tradeswomen and merchants’ wives whispered behind their hands.

      A bevy of seasoned Southwark whores brayed at one another in their sharp, rough speech. One of them elbowed a path toward Bull, tossed him a coin, and said, “Please, sir, be merciful!”

      Bull ignored the plea and the coin. Only in lean times would he stoop to accepting a bribe from a whore. Thanks to Lord Protector Cromwell, present times were not lean.

      Through the black rim of his woolsey hood, Bull caught a flash of silver from a woman’s throat: a crucifix or a Lamb of God, no doubt, worn in defiance of the ban on popish idolatry.

      Guards flanked the road leading to the gallows where the priest would hang. Like Bull, Cromwell’s soldiers seemed struck by the abundance of female spectators. Their hard gazes roved over the throng, resting on a comely maid here, a buxom gentlewoman there.

      Thaddeus Bull heard the unmistakable scraping noise that heralded the arrival of the prisoner. He glanced at the noose, swinging in the brisk spring wind. Thick hemp for this one, the sheriff had ordered. Thin rope strangles a man instantly and spares him the agony of the drawing and quartering.

      The authorities, Bull knew, wanted Father John to feel every moment of slow strangulation, every stroke of the sword. Bull’s gaze moved to the blade of his knife. Specially wrought in Saxony, the weapon was designed to slit a man cleanly from gullet to crotch. He had honed the edge parchment thin, for he was no butcher to hack away at a poor sod, priest or not.

      Thaddeus Bull was a simple man, but he knew guilt when he felt it. He could almost taste it in his mouth, like a knobby piece of mutton gristle.

      Bull cleared his throat. He wished he could spit on the ground but the hood prevented it. Meting out justice was his job and he was paid to do it. Many of the condemned, eager to secure a place in paradise, gave him gold coins as tokens of their absolution—not as bribes. But he would accept no inducements today, for this priest was to die hard.

      The crowd hushed. Between the beats of the dirge-like drum rhythm came the sliding sound of the wattled hurdle.

      Amid the ranks of soldiers rode the sheriff. Behind him plodded a massive horse, its great lower jaw yawning at an iron bit. Harnessed to the beast was the hurdle, a plastered oaken beam dragged along like a narrow sledge.

      The prisoner rode with his back aligned on the length of wood, bound at his hands and feet and waist.

      The three-mile journey from Tower Hill hadn’t been easy, Bull observed. Bumping over the cobbled streets of Cheapside, through the mud puddles and horse dung of Holborn, and being dragged through the ripe garbage of the Strand had taken its toll. Father John’s face, hair, and robes were covered in filth.

      The eerie silence drew out. Bull waited to hear the customary jeers, but none rang from the perfumed throng.

      A plump doxy broke through the ranks of the soldiers. Before they could stop her, she dropped to her knees beside the priest and used a damp white cloth to cleanse his face and beard and hair. A soldier dragged the woman away.

      Father John raised his clean face to scan the onlookers.

      Then the weeping began.

      Never had Bull heard the like: great, heartfelt sobs, high-pitched wails, ragged hopeless sounds that seemed wrenched from the very souls of the weepers.

      Bull adjusted his hood, the better to see the priest. His long hair was a greasy, matted mane the indeterminate hue of London mud. The beard straggled several inches below his chin. Blast, thought Bull. Beards were a nuisance.

      The priest’s deep-set eyes were as blank as polished stones. The face bore the ravages of a course of torture that, according to Tower rumor, hadn’t drawn so much as a word from Father John. His silence had defied the rack, the wheel, the iron maiden. One interrogator swore the priest was a practitioner of the black arts who was capable of slipping into a trancelike state. Others said he had lost his mind.

      Bull heard a whisper, light and feminine, as sweet as a psalm sung by an angel. “Wesley. Oh, Wesley, no...”

      Who the devil is Wesley? Bull wondered.

      * * *

      John Wesley Hawkins, formerly a king’s cavalier and presently a condemned Catholic novice, hoped no one of consequence had heard the whisper of his true name. For six years he had kept his identity a secret, known only to England’s underground Catholics and a few well-placed royalists.

      How ironic to be discovered by the authorities now.

      But he just might be. For he heard the name Wesley being hissed from woman to woman.

      He was surprised and a little dismayed at the size of the crowd that had come to witness his launch into eternity. It was daunting to have to face so much desperate grief all at once.

      Save it, he wanted to say to them. I’m not cut of the cloth of a martyr, never was.

      Some men craved the fate that awaited Hawkins. They prayed for the day their tormenters would put their wills to the test and their souls to rest. They envisioned a glorious death and, afterward, elevation to sainthood.

      Sainthood had a certain lofty appeal, but it wasn’t strong enough to make John Wesley Hawkins crave death.

      Not just death, he reminded himself morbidly, but choking until death kissed his soul; then, still alive, he would be cut down and his body sliced open, his insides drawn out and his heart carved from his chest. Then the beheading and quartering, his parboiled parts displayed publicly to warn off those who dared practice the Catholic faith. A costly commodity, this sainthood.

      He hoped he would lose consciousness at the first stroke of the knife, but he had never been a squeamish man and couldn’t count on fainting. At Worcester, he had survived a sword wound that would have killed most men. As a further taunt to death, he had stitched the gash with his own hands.

      In the Tower, he had refined his ability to resist pain. He remembered little of the rack and less of the hot irons; the burns and bruises only tormented him later.

      Someone removed the ropes. Blood rushed to the tips of his fingers and toes, so swift and hot that it hurt. But what sweet agony! His very blood had taken up the refrain he had been trying—and failing—to ignore: I want to live. I want to live.

      But his fate was here, on this infamous hill surrounded by green fields and budding trees and weeping women.

      As soldiers hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the hangman’s cart, he allowed himself a last look at his mourners.

      All those women. Some harkened back to his misspent youth. Others were devout followers who had embraced his later cause. There were pretty women and plain ones, rich ones and poor ones, women he had liked and women he had merely lusted after.

      Good