Sanctus (2887)

            As first light broke through my window, I awoke. I had slept restlessly, and my sheets bound my legs. I untangled myself, walked to the washing basin, and splashed water on my face to clean away the light film of sweat that lingered from my dreams. I ordered a maid to draw me a bath, and a second brought me my breakfast. I picked at the loaf of bread given to me, ignored the meat and cheese, and took a long swallow from the glass of wine. I bathed quickly and dressed in my official uniform: black pants, sleeveless shirt, and tunic with the king’s insignia, belted with a black cord. I put on my pair of tall black boots, and I was ready. I downed the rest of the wine and left my room.

            I walked down the corridor and down the stairs to the armory, where I kept my axe. A mighty weapon, it took a grown man two hands to wield it. I laid it across my lap and ran a whetstone along its edge, sharpening it to clear my mind.

            A page ran up to me. At the door, he relayed his message. “The king is ready for you, sir. It’s time.”

            I nodded to the boy, laid the whetstone in its place, and stood. I walked to the courtyard, carrying my axe easily in one hand. I was not often called to the service of the king, but when I was, I preferred to be prepared. I donned my hood before stepping out into the cold winter’s sunshine. I stood up straight, lifted my chin, and strode quickly to the scaffold in the middle of the courtyard. I was the king’s executioner, and there was work to do.

            The crowd parted before me, respectful of my position. I mounted the stairs to the scaffold and took my place. The king, seated above the throng on the steps to the throne room, motioned to the crier, who called for the prisoner to be brought out. The crowd roared as the man accused of killing the king’s nephew entered the courtyard and was escorted to the block. The man walked steadily, but his eyes were wild. For a moment, his eyes met mine, and the unanswerable question in them forced me to mentally withdraw. My eyes glazed as I reminded myself that the man had killed the king’s nephew. ‘Accused of killing,’ the voice in my head corrected, but I only withdrew further, forcing my mind behind a wall of stone.

            The man was asked for last words. “I didn’t do it!” he screamed, and I calmly looked to the king, numb. He motioned for us all to continue with the proceedings. The man was forced to his knees, and his head was placed upon the block. With one sweep, I did my deed. The head fell, and the body fell limp. The crowd was wild, jeering at the man’s denial of his crime and celebrating his fitting punishment. I felt nothing.

            The king ordered that the man’s head be spiked above the gate, and retreated to the warmth of his hall. The man’s body was given to his wife for burial, and the crowd dispersed as the body was removed. Some followed the men with the head to the gate, to scorn any who may show pity for the man. Still numb, I returned to the armory, removed my hood, and polished my axe, removing any trace of the man’s blood. As I hung it on the wall, I caught sight of myself reflected in the blade. My hair was sweaty and stood at odd angles from the hood I had been wearing, but what caught me were my eyes. They were haunted with the man that had looked into them just minutes before. They, too, looked trapped and wild.

            I slowly walked to my room, and ordered another bath. Two in one day was a luxury, but I could not wear the king’s insignia without bathing that morning, and after my work was complete, my skin crawled until I bathed again. As I stripped off the blood-stained garments, I tried again to convince myself that I had done right. The argument was an old one, as I had been executioner for many years, and each time faced the same question of right or wrong. Part of me argued that crimes had to be punished, and I was merely the acting arm in that punishment. The other part argued that if killing was punishable by death, when was my own sentence going to be read, and my own head taken? I let the hot water envelop me in an attempt to drive away the questions.

            I did not ask to be executioner. I used to be a woodsman, cutting lumber for a living, but my wife became sick with something our village had never seen before. I brought her to the castle, because the healers here are the best in the country. I barely had enough money for the trip, and when we arrived, I could not afford a room at the inn, much less one of the famed healers. I begged the king to have pity on us. He had recently lost his executioner for reasons I did not understand, and he offered me the job. Swing an axe every once in a while, and I received all the comforts of the castle. I agreed, and a healer was immediately sent to tend to my wife.

            The king ordered me to perform my first duty upon a criminal. That first head I took was not the worst one. The man jeered at me for taking orders from the king, and there was nothing but anger in his eyes. I don’t remember what his crime was, but he had no trace of regret in his manner. He also didn’t try to deny his foul deed. For his last words he shouted, “Given the chance, I’d do it again!” I had no doubt that he deserved his punishment, and, at the wave of the king’s hand, I gave it to him.

            And then, under the watchful gaze of the healer, my wife died. After that, my job became much more difficult. I realized that I could not leave quite as easily as I had come. I don’t mean to say that life in the castle wasn’t comfortable—it was—but I’m a simple man at heart, and I belong in the forest. I learned that the previous executioner had defied the king somehow, and had been killed by one of the king’s guard. I cannot say whether the reason was personal or political, as politics had never interfered with my life before, but as the years pass, I expect it was some of both.

            Justice in the kingdom is not a perfect system. Occasionally people are wrongfully accused, and sometimes they die for that. As I said before, the first head was not the worst. That title goes to the second one. I had been living in the castle for many months at this point, living comfortably and growing (I’m ashamed to admit) somewhat soft. What the man was accused of is not important, and it does not come to mind. What I remember is the look in his eye that clearly told me that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the trained hound caught in the henhouse, sniffing out the fox that had just made off with the heads of half the chickens. Obviously the hound was not to blame, but the fox was gone and the master wanted so badly for something to pay for the loss of the chickens that common sense was lost upon him, and the hound paid the price. Whatever this man’s story, I knew he was not the criminal we called him. At least, not of the crime that he would give his head for. The decision was not mine to make, however. I would do the king’s bidding, and the king ordered the man beheaded.

            The crier called for last words, and a single tear traced down the man’s cheek as he stared me down. I recoiled, taking a half step back before I remembered myself and looked to the king. He motioned for me to continue, a slight crease in his brow denoting his displeasure at my performance. As I raised the axe, it occurred to me that I had not tested the edge that morning. Luckily, it had been kept sharp by others using the armory, but I did not know that at the time. I had not touched the axe or done any sort of heavy lifting since that first beheading which had occurred months before. My easy living was taking a toll, and my arms shook slightly as I raised the blade. My weakness coupled with my certainty of the man’s innocence and caused me to hesitate as I brought the blade down upon his neck. He screamed awfully, choking on blood. I had not severed the neck. In a panic, I swung wildly, hacking away until finally his head was in the basket. I barely remained on my feet while the formalities ended, and made it back into the castle just in time to tear off my hood and retch into a corner.

            The king called me in later, and made it clear that another performance like the one I gave that day would not be tolerated. I vowed to improve, and spent the rest of the day learning how to pack away my personal feelings behind walls of stone. I also began a training regimen so that I would never have to hear that scream again. The next beheading, when it came, went smoothly, and each one since has bothered me no more than that.

            The bath grew cold, pulling me back to that morning’s job. The look in that man’s eyes was identical to the one I saw from that second man, long ago. The usual argument that the man had met his fit punishment would not work for this case, and I wondered instead if I had been the murderer on the scaffold that day. I stepped from the bath, shivering in the cold. I dressed slowly, trying to form a plan. I knew that if I left, I would be hunted down, but I had made up my mind: I had to get out.

            I told the maids that I was going for a ride. I bid one to fetch me a bag of food for the road, and another I sent to the stable to tell the boys to ready a horse. I often went riding, and they did not question my requests. While they were away, I gathered the coins that I had saved over the years, and wrapped them in an old shirt. I had never gotten rid of the clothes I had worn on my way to the castle years ago, and I packed them tightly into a sack. Once the maids had returned, I dismissed them for the afternoon, stuffed the food into my clothing bag, and walked briskly to the stables.

            I set out easily. I packed away any anxiety behind my inner wall of stone, and the guards did not question my motives. Out of the gate, I rode along my usual route into the nearby forest. The thieves only bothered me the first time I rode out this way. They quickly discovered that I carried no money and could throw a solid punch, so thereafter, they left me alone. None had bothered me since, and this time was no different. Once I was solidly among the trees, I went off the path a ways. I tied the horse and changed into my old set of clothes. I left the horse, the king’s insignia plain upon the saddle. If anyone dared to take her, they knew what risk they were running. A part of me hoped that someone would take her. It wouldn’t help if a search party found my horse, and I wasn’t feeling very charitable towards the king at the moment.

            I took the food and money and walked slowly back towards the castle. I pulled up the hood of my robe and bent over, trying to disguise myself as best as I could. As I neared the gates, I recognized the woman whose husband had died by my axe that morning. I followed her at a distance back to her house. I did not want to confront her, lest she realize who I was, so I merely left the bag of coins on her stoop, knocked on the door, and ran. I hid in the shadows, watching as she opened the door, saw the bag, picked it up, and opened it. It was all the money I had, and she nearly dropped it once she saw the contents. She recovered, looked quickly around the dark street, and withdrew quickly into her house.       I snuck away, three copper pennies in my palm. I had entered the king’s service with as much, and I would leave with no more.

            I returned to the forest, walking somewhat easier now that I felt at least part of my debt had been paid. I could not return her husband, but I could pay her the cost of his death—and many others’ besides. Hoof beats sounded behind me, and I dove off the road into cover, heart pounding in my chest. It was nothing—a merchant on his way to the next city—but I lay under the bushes long after they had passed. It was dark. I was usually back by now, and soon someone might wonder where I had gone. If I was lucky, those wondering would assume that I had found company for the night. If I was not, they might assume that something far worse had occurred, and send out search parties for my safety or my capture. I set out, following the road in the darkness.

            Luck was on my side, and no search party caught up with me that night. By dawn, I was beat. I did not want to stop after only one night’s journey, but my body needed sleep. I saw an inn on the road and ignored it, certain that the king’s men would search inns first. After all, I was supposed to be on horseback, and if this was a simple misunderstanding, I’d be travelling comfortably. I continued on the road, flinching at hoof beats, until an elderly man pulled up beside me with a wagonload of logs cut to firewood length, but not yet split. He called down to me, noting my exhausted demeanor and my jumpiness. He wondered idly if there was someone I was running from, and I trusted him without a second thought. I offered my service with an axe if he would give me a ride and place to sleep. I added that if he would keep all this quite from the guards, I’d appreciate it immensely. He chuckled softly and allowed me to join him on the wagon seat. Apparently, he never really did like politics.

            We rode in comfortable silence, and I nodded off a few times. I would wake with a start, but since I did not recognize the country, I could only trust that the man wasn’t out to fool me. By midday, I began to get jumpy again. Surely by now they had discovered my absence. Surely someone would be hunting me down. Still, no one came, and soon we were turning off the main road to the man’s house, high on a cliff above the ocean.

            He set me to work on the firewood, but I soon discovered that I was not up to the task. Every stroke I had aimed at a man’s neck was, in my mind’s eye, a stroke to a bit of wood. It was my first line of defense against the viciousness of my actions. Now that I was again chopping wood, the situation reversed, and I could not help but see the men I killed as I brought down the axe. He gently led me inside, releasing me from my promise. He looked into my eyes, and seemed satisfied by what he found.

            The guards arrived later that day. I had no fight left. The king had unknowingly taken my trade from me, and with it, he took away any chance for me to make a life outside the castle. I was standing out back behind the house, and called out to the guards as they approached. They were, indeed, looking for me. They were to bring me back to the castle on pain of death. I was likely to suffer a hanging once I got there if I refused to return to my position. An executioner would be found for the occasion.

            I walked slowly backwards, away from them, towards the edge of the cliff. The sound of the waves calmed me, drowning out the argument inside me. There was no right or wrong, there was only the water crashing on the rocks far below. No one would become a killer on my behalf. I turned and jumped.