“No!” Baudouin shouted, bucking at his guards as he tried to break free. “Unhand her, René. She had no part in this. My son had no part in this!”
A strangled gasp escaped me as I put the scene together. The prisoners—wearing a matching set of ivory shifts—were Baudouin’s wife and child.
My mind couldn’t take in what I was seeing. Baudouin’s family had been here for months. They’d been dressed for execution all along.
Marnaigne hadn’t ever been ready to offer his brother clemency.
He had always intended to put him to death.
And the family…
With a terrible nod, Marnaigne ordered the ceremony to begin, and the crowd jeered, tossing clods of earth and the remains of their lunches at the disgraced duke and his family.
The soldiers manhandled Baudouin to the block, positioning his head in the curved recess and locking his shackles to the hooks bolted to the platform. The duke thrashed, squirming against any amount of slack he could manage, an animal caged in confines far too small. “Stop this madness! Show them mercy! Brother,please!”
Marnaigne froze and a flicker of hesitation wavered on his face. “Wait!” he called, struggling to be heard over the shouts of the crowd. “Stop this now!”
The guards froze, listening for their king’s orders. Baudouin stopped his struggles, brightening with painful hope.
“Unlock the shackles. Unlock the chains.”
A murmur of confusion swept over the gathered, stilling the courtyard to a hush.
Marnaigne studied his brother, and I could see the range of emotions ripple over his face: compassion and sorrow, pity and forgiveness. He looked down, as if about to cry, and swallowed hard. When he straightened, his eyes were full of fury and scorn.
“The boy should go first,” he decided, raising his voice so that all might hear his horrible decree. “Let his father see the fruits of his labors.”
“No,” Leopold murmured, so softly I wasn’t even certain he’d spoken. “Don’t do this, Papa!”
Before anyone could protest, before anyone could think to stop him, to stop them, to stop this horror from unfolding, the executioner sprang into action, and I gasped.
Certain he would not be needed, I’d not noticed him until this very moment. Now he dominated the platform. His two-toned tunic fluttered in the breeze, and bronze bracelets laden with holy charms tinkled against one another as his scarred arms flexed, picking up the large curved axe.
Without a thought, I grabbed Leopold’s hand as Bertie took that weapon and swung it high over his head, aiming it directly at Baudouin’s son.
Chapter 47
Leopold’s grasp did not falter.
Not when the axe descended with such a rush we could hear the whir of it, slicing the air before hitting its intended mark, square across the nape of the boy’s neck.
Not when Bellatrice let out a strangled scream, the color draining from her face.
Not when the wife’s blood spurted forth, spraying my brother’s face and anointing him in a baptism most foul.
Not even as the crowd leapt to its feet, rejoicing, dancing, screaming their delight to the heavens. Throughout it all, Leopold’s hand was warm and tight around mine.
Loud peals rang out as temples all around the city began their celebrations, cheering the demise of a family who had once threatened so much of Châtellerault’s way of life.
Baudouin’s head rolled off the edge of the platform, joining those of his family on the stones below. I knew they could no longer see, I knew they were no longer truly there, but in that moment, I swore his wife’s eyes met mine, sharp and accusing.
Somehow she knew this was my fault.
I had chosen to save the king, and now all three of them weredead.
I let go of Leopold then.
I shook my hand free, bringing it to cover my mouth as my stomach lurched. I turned from the bloodied stage, turned from Leopold, turned away from the hateful glares of so many bodiless faces, and hurried from the royal box.
