Boris snorted a laugh. “Father told them to make sure everyone gets a good view, but I swear they’ve cut down an acre of forest to build this.”
“Well, I don’t know why she should get to see it. This isn’t for girls,” Harold said, hands on hips, legs apart, staring at Catherine.
“And yet children are allowed to attend,” Catherine replied, imitating his stance.
“I’m fourteen, sister.”
Catherine walked past him, whispering, “In two months, little brother. But I won’t tell anyone.”
Harold grumbled, “I’ll soon be bigger than you,” before pushing past her and stomping off after Boris. He looked particularly small and slight as he followed behind Boris’s broad frame. They were clearly brothers, their red-blond hair exactly the same shade, though Harold’s was more intricately tied, and it struck Catherine that he must have had someone spend more time on his hair than her maids had spent with hers.
However, Harold’s opinion about the propriety of Catherine’s presence mattered as little as Catherine’s own. She had been ordered to attend the execution by her father, on the advice of Noyes. Catherine had to prove herself to them. Prove her strength and loyalty, and most importantly that she was no traitor in heart, mind, or deed.
Boris was already rounding the corner of the scaffold. Catherine hurried to catch up, lifting her long skirt so as not to trip. Although she couldn’t yet see the crowd, she could hear its low buzz. It was strange how you could sense a crowd, sense a mood. The men in the hall had been polite on the surface, but there was a barely concealed lust: for power, for . . . anything. Here, there was a large crowd and a surprisingly good mood. A couple of shouts of “Boris” went up, but they quickly died. This wasn’t Boris’s day.
Boris turned and stared at Catherine as she joined him. “You want to show off your legs to the masses, sister?”
Catherine dropped her skirt and smoothed the fabric, saying in her most repulsed voice, “The cobbles aren’t clean. This silk will be ruined.”
“Better that than your reputation.” Boris held Catherine’s gaze. “I’m only thinking of you, sister.” He waved to his left, at the raised platform carpeted in royal red, and stated, “This is for us.”
As if Catherine couldn’t work it out for herself.
Boris led the way up the three steps. The royal enclosure was rather basic, with a single row of the wide, carved wooden stools Catherine recognized from the meeting hall. A thick red rope was strung loosely between short red-and-black posts that demarked the platform. The crowd was beyond the platform, and it too was held back by rope (not red, but thick, coarse, and brown) and a line of the Royal Guard (in red, black, and gold, but also thick and coarse, Catherine assumed).
Boris pointed at the seat closest to the far edge of the platform. “For you, sister.” He planted himself on the wide stool next to hers, his legs apart, a muscular thigh overlapping Catherine’s seat. She sat down, carefully arranging her skirt so that it wouldn’t crease and so that the pale pink silk fell over Boris’s knee. He moved his leg away.
Harold remained standing by the seat on the other side of Boris. “But Catherine gets the best view.”
“That’s the point, squirt,” Boris replied.
“But I have precedence over Catherine and I want to sit there.”
“Well, I gave Catherine that seat. So you sit on this one here and stop your whining.”
Harold hesitated for a moment. He opened his mouth to complain again but caught Catherine’s eye. She smiled and made an elegant sewing sign in front of her lips. Harold glanced at Boris and had to clamp his lips together with his teeth, but he did remain quiet.
Catherine surveyed the square. There was another platform opposite, on the other side of the scaffold, with some noblemen standing on it. She recognized Ambrose’s long blond hair and quickly looked away, wondering if she was blushing. Why did just a glimpse of him make her feel hot and flustered? And today of all days! She had to think of something else. Sometimes her whole life seemed to involve thinking of something else.
The area before the scaffold was packed with common folk. Catherine stared at the crowd, forcing her focus onto them. There were scruffily dressed laborers, some slightly smarter traders, groups of young men, some boys, a few women. They were for the most part dressed drably, some almost in rags, their hair loose or tied back simply. Near her, people were talking about the weather. It was already hot, the hottest day of the year so far, the sky a pure pale blue. It was a day to be enjoyed, and yet hundreds of people were here to see someone die.
“What makes these people come to watch this, do you suppose, brother?” Catherine asked, putting on her I’m-asking-a-genuine-question voice.
“You don’t know?”
“Educate me a little. You are so much more experienced in these matters.”
Boris replied in an overly sincere voice, “Well, sister. There’s a holy trinity that drives the masses and draws them here. Boredom, curiosity, and bloodlust. And the greatest of these is bloodlust.”
“And do you suppose this bloodlust is increased when it’s a noble head that is going to be severed from a noble body?”
“They just want blood,” Boris replied. “Anyone’s.”
“And yet these people here seem more interested in discussing the weather than the finer points of chopping someone in two.”
“They don’t need to discuss it. They need to see it. They’ll stop talking about the weather soon enough. When the prisoner is brought out you’ll see what I mean. The rabble want blood and they’ll get it here today. And you’ll get a lesson in what happens to someone who betrays the king. One you can’t learn from books.”
Catherine turned her face from the contempt in Boris’s voice. That was how she learned about life—from books. Though it was hardly her fault that she wasn’t allowed to meet people, to travel, to learn about the world from the world. But Catherine did like books, and in the last few days she had scoured the library for anything relating to executions: she’d studied the law, the methods, the history, and numerous examples. The illustrations, most of which showed executioners holding up severed heads, were bad enough, but to choose to witness it, to choose to be part of it, part of the crowd baying for blood, was something Catherine couldn’t understand.
“I still don’t see why Catherine needs to be here at all,” Harold complained.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Boris didn’t even turn to Harold as he spoke.
“But ladies don’t normally come to watch.”
Boris now couldn’t resist replying, “No, not normally, but Catherine needs a lesson in loyalty. She needs to understand the consequences of not following our plans for her.” He turned to Catherine as he added, “In every aspect. To the smallest degree.”
Harold frowned. “What plans?”
Boris ignored him.
Harold rolled his eyes and leaned toward Catherine to ask, “Is this about your marriage?”
Catherine smiled thinly. “This is an execution, so why you would link it to my marriage, I can’t imagine.” Boris glared at her, and she added, “What I mean is, I’m honored to be marrying Prince Tzsayn of Pitoria and will ensure every aspect of the wedding goes to plan, whether or not I see someone having their head chopped off.”
Harold was quiet for a few moments before asking, “But why wouldn’t it go to plan?”