to think of something that would stave off the deathblow.
“Lady of Windrose, do you have any last words?” He raised the axe.
A gurgling sound came from her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came forth.
Her heart beat like a drummer’s frenzy. The seconds seemed to drag on, each one a year in length. The wood felt cool and hard against her cheek; four dark rings and endless others of lighter colors looped on the wood. Tans and blacks and browns all faded one into another as she stared at them, her eyes going blurry.
“Would you tell my sisters that I am sorry?” she finally managed to choke out, then squeezed her eyes closed and awaited the blow. Odd disjointed thoughts scattered through her brain. Would she die right away or would her head live for a few moments, severed from her body? Would her blood paint the earth in crimson? Would her miniatures be discovered? Perhaps this was her punishment for painting such things. For only wanting to enter the convent to follow her own selfish ambitions, not religious conviction.
“James!” A voice cried out from the crowd. “Halt! You cannot slay her.”
The axe stayed high in the air, right over her neck. “Leave be, brother. This is not your concern.”
Brenna opened her eyes to see a large man pacing toward them. He was similar in height and size to Montgomery, but his hair hung freely about his shoulders, wild rather than sharply contained like her husband’s. She could not see his face. He drew near Montgomery and stopped. “She is not to blame.”
Montgomery glanced down at his chest. Red stains marred his hose and little splotches of blood fell from his torso to the ground. Damning evidence of her handiwork.
“You are here to bring peace to the region and to oversee the port. ’Twill cause discord among the castlefolk if you slay her.”
“And if I do not then I’ll not be able to sleep another night with my eyes closed.”
“Then throw her in the dungeon, make her a slave or send her to a nunnery.”
A convent! Hope soared in her heart.
“Stand back, brother. My duty is clear and this is the only way for peace.”
Her hope crushed, she winced as the axe lifted even higher.
“Your position as The Enforcer has addled your brain. Use her as an asset, a pawn.”
Brenna twisted her head as far as she could so she could to see Montgomery’s face, to see if he was softening any. She wracked her brain to think of something to say that would tip the argument in her direction.
“Prithee, my lord,” she said. “Give me my life and I will fight you no longer.” Her pride kicked her for breaking her vow to beg. But she could be no help to her family dead. Mayhap she could poison him later. They said deceit and poison were women’s weapons, but ’twas men who made it thus. What choice did a woman have in this world of men’s power and men’s wars?
Montgomery stood there, axe poised. “Offal is worth more than your word.”
She swallowed, holding her breath. No words came to her to fight his claim. Pressing her forehead into the wooden block, she closed her eyes and began to pray again despite her fury towards God for making her a woman. She would not beg Montgomery again.
Slowly, he lowered the axe until its blade rested just on the nape of her neck. The sharp, cold metal chilled her to the marrow.
Moments ticked by.
Apprehension rose higher and higher, banding her stomach, squeezing off her breath. She opened one eye, angry he drew out the moment, that he stood there so calmly while she trembled on her knees. Pressure built inside her seeming to fill all her being until she felt she would burst. The fear, the terror overwhelmed her. If she must be a woman, why could she not be a fainting one?
“Zwounds! Just get it over with, man!” she cried out when she could take no more.
The axe twisted, raking to one side and nipping her skin. Her taught nerves registered it as strongly as a deathblow and her whole body convulsed. A stinging line burned her neck.
Another wave of terror went through her that it might please him to saw her head off slowly rather than lop it off all at once. The edges of her vision blackened and the voices of the castlefolk faded. Her head swam.
Mayhap she was the fainting sort of woman after all.
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