Darkness was falling, a cold wind had arisen. Corbett sat hunched on his horse before the gibbet. He hated executions, the logical conclusion of the King’s justice, yet this time he felt different: no elation or joy, just a grim determination to see the matter through.
He glanced over his shoulder. Tressilyian, who had given his oath not to escape, sat on his horse, his bound hands holding the horn of his saddle. He seemed to be unaware of anything except the man on the ladder, the noose round his neck. Sir Maurice sat next to him, pale-faced, hard-eyed. Corbett glanced around. Sorrel was standing nearby, a posy of flowers in her hands. He recognised the wheelwright, Repton and others from the Golden Fleece.
‘Adam Burghesh!’ he called out. ‘Do you have anything to say before lawful sentence is passed?’
Burghesh hawked and spat in Corbett’s direction.
Corbett pulled his horse back, its hoofs skittering on the pebbled trackway. The clerk raised his hand.
‘Let the King’s justice be done!’
The ladder was pulled away but Burghesh acted quickly. He leapt and his body shuddered and jerked for a while, then hung still. Nothing broke the eerie silence except for the rustling of the wind and the creak of the scaffold rope.
‘The corpse is to remain there for a night and a day!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Then it can be buried.’
He turned and beckoned Sir Maurice forward.
‘Set a guard on the scaffold,’ he whispered. ‘Make sure that killer dangles as a warning.’
‘I’ll do that, Sir Hugh. And Sir Louis?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a clever lawyer: he will argue that he carried out the King’s justice. Burghesh is proof of that.’
‘Will he suffer the same fate?’
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘But he’ll face a very heavy fine: prison or exile for a while.’ He took off his glove. ‘I wish you well, Sir Maurice.’
The manor lord clasped Corbett’s hand. The clerk turned his horse and stared at the now silent figure swaying slightly on the end of the rope. He felt a touch on his knee and looked down. Sorrel offered the small posy of flowers. Corbett took it. She grasped his knee.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I now have a corpse to grieve over and a grave to visit. The King’s justice has been done.’
Corbett leant down and stroked her face.
‘Aye, Mistress Sorrel, and so has God’s!’