The vicar who hesitantly came forward to issue his last rights and pray with him was told roughly where he could shove his bible.
Preliminaries concluded, Scraggan walked down the long corridor toward the shaft of light leading to the courtyard. He ignored the barrage of insults, spittle and hatred thrown at him as he passed, staring blankly ahead with a hard smile on his face.
Despite his bravado, he swallowed harshly as he saw the waiting gallows. He was dragged down the flight of steps into the waiting courtyard and shoved roughly across the uneven cobbles to the steps. Six steps took him upward to the flat square of wooden planks with the trap door clearly visible in the middle. The loop of rope swung in the breeze. Wearing nothing but his breeches and a thin cotton shirt, Scraggan shivered as he was blasted by the cold wind. In the distance he could hear the ringing of metal and glanced over at the gaol, cursing roundly when he saw the sea of faces staring through the bars to watch his death. If he could have spit that far, he would have given each man an eyeful. Instead, he gritted his teeth and ignored the shouts of encouragement to the hangman, who was waiting for his next victim.
Scraggan had to be shoved into position above the trap door. His last view of the world was of the small open square of earth that lay waiting. The rough material of the hood shoved over his head did little to block out the shouts and laughter, and he began to pray silently as he waited.
On the high walls of Bodmin Gaol that circled the grey courtyard sat a solitary rook, the harbinger of death, watching the proceedings with a beady eye. His loud caw of delight was cut short by a loud crack, that startled the bird off his perch. He dipped and swooped around the yard, cawing loudly in alarm as the body beneath him danced and jerked.
Sensing death, the rook headed in search of warmth and, with a loud squawk of warning, flew high into the sky, happily leaving the death and misery behind.
In Oxfordshire, cheering crowds clapped and threw rice and rose petals at the couples who swept joyously out of the church.
Edward nodded to several acquaintances, and accepted their congratulations with a huge grin of relief. His eyes met and held those of his wife for several moments as he tried to silently convey his delight.
“You know what they are waiting for, don’t you?” he murmured, eyeing his wife’s soft lips with a cheeky grin.
Puzzled, Eliza shook her head and barely had a moment to gasp before she was swept into his arms. There, amid the raucous cheers and laughter of a delighted crowd, she was kissed thoroughly by her new husband.
Peter laughed and gazed lovingly at his wife.
“Come here,” he whispered, drawing her away from the crowds and over to a quieter part of the graveyard.
There, below the heavily laden branches of a sweet-smelling apple blossom tree, he took his wife into his arms, savouring the feel of her against him.
“You look stunning, darling,” he whispered softly.
“Thank you,” Jemima replied with a gentle smile. “I don’t think I have ever thanked you for following me when I left Devon. A lot of men would have run a mile at the first scent of trouble.”
“Mmm, believe me, there have been moments when I had my doubts about the wisdom of pursuing you. But seeing as there was no one else -” he laughed when Jemima whacked him playfully on the shoulder.
“I do love you,” she whispered, all her love, longing and contentment in her gaze as she studied him.
Peter’s chest swelled with pride. “And I love you, my darling Jemima,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Jemima chuckled as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, showering them with a feather-light cascade of apple blossom.
Revelling in being carefree at last, she tipped her head back and allowed the silken leaves to tickle her cheeks and nose as she relished having her husband’s arms around her.
There, under the falling leaves of the apple blossom tree, Peter answered the calls of the jubilant crowd and claimed his wife’s lips for a very thorough kiss.
“Come on, darling,” he whispered several moments later when he finally released his wife’s lips, “let the celebrations begin.”
“Amen to that,” Jemima whispered.
The End