trembles, and I glance up into his dark brown eyes, which are the only visible parts of his face. Rather than look into mine, he turns away and stares across the lawn, folding the payment into his palm with an air of finality
.
I press my handkerchief and prayer book into the waiting hands of my lady, whose silent weeping is escalating into what I
fear will be a noisy crescendo. I give her tiny pale hand a squeeze, attempting to assure her, despite my pounding heart and shortness of breath, that all will be well in the end. The executioner kneels at my feet, his eyes averted, and I grant the customary forgiveness with a wave of my hand. It is as if we are in a play, with each person knowing his assigned part and dispatched to complete the tasks in order
.
With forgiveness granted, he stands and indicates the small, square block positioned toward the front of the platform. I search the crowd, wondering which one of the men standing at attention will be the one to stop this. I decline to make the expected declaration of guilt, standing tall before the assembly and saying only, “In my life I have never so much as imagined a traitorous thought against His Majesty.”
The masked headsman holds out a simple white handkerchief to cover my eyes, but I push it away. “I do not fear the axe,” I say, loudly enough for those standing closest to the scaffold to hear. I stare into his eyes and can feel his indecision as he helps me onto my knees, for with a light touch, he holds my elbow, only reluctantly releasing it when I am positioned before the block
.
As is my part, I put my neck on the wooden block, pulling my plait aside so that the cold wind reaches the bare white skin of my neck. My breath is coming rapidly, as if I cannot force the air into my lungs quickly enough
.
The signal must have been given, for next I hear from below the scaffold, “What dost thou fear, headsman? Strike as you must!” and I am confident I will be spared. The headsman will not raise the axe to an innocent neck! Turning my head only slightly, I see
his boots take one step back and the curved metal blade of the axe lift from the straw. “I cannot save you, my lady,” the headsman whispers hoarsely, and I glance up to see a blur of motion and a flash of metal as the blade rips through the air—
“Damn, Cole, what happened?” Kat is standing over me, blocking out the bright sunshine that has reappeared over her head. “One second you’re taking a picture, and the next minute you’re flat on your ass.”
I shake my head to clear it, panic filling my chest. The other visions I’ve had were short, like quick glimpses into another time, but this one is different. I can still feel the emotions that were running through the girl’s mind as she stood on the scaffold. Her pounding heart, the sense of betrayal. It all felt so real.
“Don’t get up too fast,” the guy I’ve run into says. He puts his hand on my back to help me up, but as we touch, he pulls away as if he’s been shocked. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. His voice holds both recognition and astonishment.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Visiting the Tower.” What else would I be doing here? I study him more closely. His eyes are a distinctive shade of light brown rimmed with gold, and his skin is just dark enough to make them startling. I’d definitely remember if I’d seen him before.
He seems completely flustered. “Of course. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He puts his hand out. “Let me help you up.”
“I’m okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. So far it just looks like this guy and his friend. I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Griffon has a habit of running into pretty girls,” the friend says with a Scottish accent that makes Kat’s eyes light up. “But he usually stops short of knocking them over.”
Griffon looks irritated.