Then silence. The noise from the castle stopped, the rattling, choking sound from the woman’s thin throat ceased and I knew I was holding the hand of a corpse. Only a sudden monstrous clap of thunder outside and the noise of heavy rain suddenly beginning to pound on the roof now kept me company.
I was too late. The ripping of the daughter’s spirit from her body had been too powerful and violent for such a weakened body to resist; it had torn the life out of the mother through its departure. There was not enough time for my blood to give her the strength she needed. My indecision, and Lower’s failure, had made all my efforts worthless.
I do not know how long I sat there, holding her hand, hoping that I had made a mistake and that she had simply fallen into a fit. I was vaguely aware of more tumult from the castle, but paid it little attention. Then I closed her eyes, and combed her hair, and arranged the mean bedclothes as best I could. Finally, though she was not of my religion and might well have scorned me for my efforts, I knelt by the bed to pray for the souls of them both. I believe I was praying for myself as well.
I suppose I left that miserable place for the last time about an hour later. I was in no mood to reprimand Lower; instead, I felt a ferocious and overwhelming hunger mingling with my despair, so I went to a tavern to eat for the first time in more than a day. Dimly, as I sat there lost in my misery and thoughts, I listened to the conversation going on all around me; festive and cheerful, and so completely at odds with my spirits that I felt more a stranger than ever before.
At that moment, I hated the English for their heresy, the way they turned a hanging into a festival, timed for market day to profit the traders. I loathed their bigotry and certainty of their own correctness; I hated Lower for his temper and the way he had scorned and betrayed and abandoned me. And I decided, then and there, that I would leave forthwith this terrible little town and this grim, cruel country. There was nothing more for me to do. I had my patient, and she was dead. I had my task from my father but that was futile. I had my friends, but they, it was now clear, were hardly friends of mine. So it was time to be gone.
The resolution made me feel better. I could pack and leave within the day, if need be, but first I realized I would have to inform someone of Mrs. Blundy’s death. I did not know what, exactly, was to be done with her body but I was resolved she would not be buried as a pauper. I would ask Lower to perform me this one last service, to take some of my money and see that she was interred with proper solemnity.
The decision brought me back to myself, or maybe it was the food and drink that did it. I picked up my head and noticed, for the first time, all that was going on around me. And realized they were talking of the hanging.
I could not make out exactly what had happened, but it was clear some scandal had attended the event; so, when I saw Mr. Wood in a far corner, I asked him how he was, and whether he knew what had happened.
We had met only a few times in the past, and it was no doubt impolite of me to approach him, but I was desperate to know, and Wood was more than keen to tell me the story.
His eyes bright with the pleasure of scandal, and with a most inappropriate air of suppressed excitement, he asked me to sit by him so that he might tell me in full.
“It is done?” I asked.
I thought maybe he had been drinking, early though it was, for he laughed immoderately at my question. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Done it is. She has died.”
“I am sorry for you,” I said. “Did she not work for your family? It must have been distressing.”
He nodded. “It was. Especially for my poor mother. But justice must be served, and it has been.” He laughed again, and I felt like striking him for his heartlessness.
“Did she die well? Please tell me,” I asked. “I am upset, because the girl’s mother has just died as well, and I attended her in her last moments.”
Oddly, this upset him a great deal, far more than the hanging of his own servant. “That is very sad indeed,” he said quietly, sober all of a sudden. “I knew her, and found her both interesting and gentle.”
“Please,” I repeated, “tell me what happened.”
So Wood began. However much embroidered already, it was a dreadful tale, which reflected badly on all concerned, except for Sarah Blundy herself who, alone, had behaved with dignity and correctness. Everyone else, in Wood’s account, disgraced themselves.
He said he had assembled at the castle forecourt just after four to be sure of a good vantage point. He was not the first by any means, and had he delayed even another half hour, he would have missed most of what occurred. Long before the ceremony began, the courtyard was crowded with a sober, somber crowd, all facing the tree which already had the rope dangling from a strong branch, and a ladder propped up against it. A few dozen yards away, the jail officials kept watchers away from the pyre which was to consume the girl’s body after she was dead. Some people took logs for mementoes, others to warm themselves at home, and on several occasions in the past a punishment had been postponed because too much wood had been taken to permit the body’s consumption.
Then, exactly as the first light dawned, a little door opened, and Sarah Blundy, heavily chained and shivering in a thin cotton shift, her hair pulled back, was brought out. The crowd, he said, grew very quiet at the sight, for she was a pretty girl, and it was hard to believe anyone of her delicate appearance could possibly deserve such a punishment.
Then Lower pushed himself forward and muttered a few words to the hangman, and bowed ceremoniously to the girl as she was led forward.
“Did she say anything?” I asked. “Did she admit her guilt once more?” Strangely, it was important to me at that moment to hear that she was truly guilty. Her admission in the courtroom had reassured me greatly, for it was the final information I required—no one confesses to a crime of that magnitude unless they are certainly guilty, for to do so is to abandon hope of life. It is no less than suicide, the greatest of sins.
“I do not think so,” he said. “But I couldn’t hear it all. She spoke very softly, and even though I was close by, I missed much of it. But she owned herself one of the worst sinners in the world, and said that she prayed for forgiveness, even though she knew she did not deserve it. It was a short speech, and was very well received. Then a minister offered to pray with her, and she turned him down, saying she needed no prayers from him. He is one of the new men put in by the king, and very far from the views of Sarah and her sort. That, of course, caused more of a stir. Some of the crowd looked displeased, but a fair number—mainly the rougher folk—approved of her courage.”
This, he told me, was nothing too much out of the ordinary. It was the task of the church to impose itself at such moments and it was naturally open to the condemned—who had little to lose, after all—to make a last gesture of defiance, if they felt so inclined. Sarah prayed alone, on her knees in the mud and with a quietness and decorum that elicited a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. Then she stood up, and nodded to the hangman. Her hands were bound, and she was helped up the ladder until her neck was level with the rope.
There the hangman stopped her, and began tying the noose.
She moved her head to make herself as comfortable as possible, and then all was ready. She had refused to have her head bound or covered in any way, and the crowd fell silent as they saw her eyes close and her lips move so the name of God would be the last sound to pass her lips. The drummers began their roll, and at the end, the hangman leaned forward, and simply pushed her off the ladder.