The Gallows Bride (34 page)

Although
May had been reasonably warm, in Bodmin, dark storm clouds gathered
menacingly. The sea fog had rolled further inland than usual,
leaving the air moist and humid.

In a
solitary cell in the lower regions of the gaol, Rogan Scraggan
stared blankly at the wall. He still wasn’t sure how he had managed
to lose control so quickly. His biggest mistake was in trusting his
right-hand man to ensure that Jemima Trevelisk was hanged. He had
stupidly remained in Cornwall to oversee his gang, and had waited
anxiously for news of her fate. He had thought that, once convicted
and condemned, the gaol would actually carry out the punishment
meted out to her. He had never considered that he would be fooled
so easily. He should have killed the bitch himself the moment he
had laid eyes on her.

At first
he had found it funny when she had run, and in her stupidity she
had left a trail a mile wide for his men to follow. It hadn’t taken
many resources to follow her to Derby, and set about his plans,
although she did keep moving around, which was damned inconvenient.
But his men did their job, kept an eye on her, kept breathing down
her neck and making her unsettled, while they worked out their
ultimate plans.

His
thoughts immediately turned to his son, and he wondered if it was
over yet.

Since
his arrival at the gaol, he had been kept away from the other
prisoners, mainly for his own safety. There was a lot of anger
toward him from the other prisoners who had either been conscripted
into joining Scraggan’s gang, or had relatives who had been victims
of his ruthless regime. Not wanting to be cheated of the
opportunity to carry out the execution, the gaol had kept him in a
cell by himself.

All week
he had been in a cell at the rear of the gaol, overlooking the
inner courtyard. He had heard the hammering and sawing as the
gallows had been constructed and, with nothing else to do, had
stood on his small wooden cot and stared out through the bars. Only
yesterday he had watched first his right-hand man, then his best
and most trusted associates, being led out, one by one, to meet
their fate.

He felt
sick to his stomach. If he had a knife, he would have cut his own
throat there and then and saved himself the ordeal that lay ahead.
Each man they had hanged yesterday had lingered. With no relatives
or friends allowed to watch the hangings, the men had not had
anyone to pull their legs and quicken their fate, leaving them to
die a slow and painful death.

No
sooner had the hangings taken place than gaolers had arrived and
moved him to a cell in the darkest reaches of the hellhole and left
him. He had been fed a little, and given a little water. That
morning, one of the gaolers had informed him that his son was being
hanged at first light at Newgate. The gruel they called breakfast
that he had thrown at the bars wasn’t any great loss. He didn’t
care about anything now anyway. He had nothing left.

His
money was gone, stolen by the Redcoats. All his best and most
trusted men had been hanged. Even his precious son had been put to
death. His home had been raized to the ground by an army determined
to ensure anyone who had escaped their net would have no base to
work from. Although he would rather have his teeth pulled out than
admit it, he had been reduced to nothing.

The
sunlight had not even bothered to make an appearance, having long
since given way to the continuous drizzle that hung in the air.
Although he knew it was going to happen, he still jumped when the
heavy iron bolt on the cell door was drawn back, the sound echoing
hollowly around the stone walls. He closed his eyes and then glared
sullenly at the two men who entered. His small eyes were almost
feral as he stared spitefully at them.

They had
no doubt he would have killed them had he been given half the
chance, and had been alerted to remain on guard to stop him taking
his own life.

Scraggan
had no doubt they were enjoying being able to mete out justice to
one of Cornwall’s most notorious criminals. Still, he may be down
but he certainly wasn’t out just yet and he was determined not to
go without a fight.

They
unchained him from the wall, dragging him unceremoniously across
the floor when he refused to walk. He traded curses and insults
with the inmates who shouted through the bars at him, dragging his
heels to make it harder for the gaolers to lead him. Nevertheless,
he was brought before the waiting ironmonger who quickly hammered
the chains apart and released the manacles.

Scraggan
glared at the two men standing on either side of the ironmonger
while he worked, clearly armed with pistols. He had no doubt they
would wound him and hang him anyway and, although angry, Scraggan
was no idiot and didn’t see why he should make his last few minutes
in the world harder than they needed to be. His face was a blank
mask of fury as his hands were wrenched roughly behind his
back.

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

Other
books in this series:

If You Were Mine

Cinders and Ashes

Chasing Eliza

Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe
will be
released in summer 2013

Further
details of all Rebecca’s books can be found on her
website:

Rebeccaking-author.co.uk