rattling as the guards pulled him along.
'You can all go to hell!' Courtenay called after him, 'You are all wrong!'
The Speaker bowed and followed the men out of the room and as the doors closed behind them Courtenay's voice could still be heard fading away as he was taken down towards the cells.
Winterburne looked at the two men on either side of him, a half-smile on his face. They glanced back, but there was nothing to read in their faces and he supposed they must feel as relieved as he did. He thought that perhaps he would have been more pleased at Courtenay's conviction, but so much had happened in the time that he had left the Empire that now he just felt numb.
'Excuse me,' he said, to the others, before making his way across to where the Queen was seated. He bowed as he approached her.
'Captain,' Ysabel said, 'or perhaps it might be more proper that I should call you Lord Winterburne?'
'You are Queen,' Winterburne said, 'I would think that you could call me anything you wish. However, I suspect that in my absence from the Emperor's command it would make it more appropriate to call me Lord. I doubt that Captain of the Watch will be how I end my days upon my return. Frederick had already put a more than able replacement in place when I left.'
Ysabel smiled. 'Then I shall continue to call you Lord Winterburne. In any event, it sounds more respectful to my ear.'
'As you wish, Your Majesty.'
'You know, I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.'
'It is no more than any man of good character would do.'
Ysabel smiled at him.
'The Emperor always had faith that the truth would prevail,' Winterburne said, pausing. 'Although, for a moment back there, when Courtenay made his speech, a part of me wondered what might happen.'
Ysabel nodded. 'I cannot deny that I too had a brief image of another outcome. Yet, we need not have worried. Emperor Frederick was right, though, about a great many things. And I was wrong.'
'Lord Courtenay fooled many people for a very long time, Your Majesty. He is an expert manipulator, you should not be too hard on yourself, or indeed anyone else who fell for his deceptions.'
'But he will not be able to deceive anyone else.'
'It seems not,' Winterburne replied. 'When will the sentence be carried out?'
'We act swiftly in the Commonwealth, My Lord. He will be taken down at sunrise. It is tradition and I see no reason to change in this instance.'
Winterburne nodded, and smiled. 'Sunrise,' he said, approving.
'I hope you are a prompt waker,' Ysabel said. 'As one of the key witnesses to Courtenay's crimes, it is expected that you will attend the execution.'
'Your Majesty,' Winterburne replied, 'I think I safely speak for the whole of the Empire when I say that it will be a pleasure.'
50
The Eleventh Day of Fall,
Imperial Year 2332
The white granite stonework of the prison buildings gleamed in the early morning light, the cell blocks encircling the courtyard like some kind of man-made quarry wall. High up, rows of iron bars marked the levels of each of the floors, five in total. Here and there, prisoners had thrust their hands through the bars to wave a shirt or a blanket and a few called out, their voices carrying through the air to echo around the square.
The single arch of a simple gateway burrowed its way through the walls into the courtyard, the only way to enter or exit. The gateway was deep in shadow, the warmth of the sun yet to cast itself across the flagstone floor. Guards waited on either side of the passageway, staring ahead of them, serious in their solemn duty.
In the centre of the courtyard, raised above the stones upon a purpose-built wooden platform, stood the solid construction of a guillotine, the polished steel blade pristine and shining. At its side stood the executioner, a strong, muscled man, his head covered in a black hood, a thin slit barely revealing the dark eyes beneath.
How fitting that the man who would end his life should wear his own trademark black, Courtenay thought, and a hood, too. As he looked around him he felt calm, accepting, almost at peace, but it may have been the fact that all this seemed so surreal, a dream from which he had yet to awaken, but deep inside he knew that he was awake. Even so, it was as if this whole performance was happening to someone else.
The assembled witnesses were also there, faceless shapes, present and yet only shades of their true nature somehow. He had no friends here. And then something occurred to him. Speaking of friends, where had Conn gone anyway? In his hour of most need, even his trusted man had deserted him.
He felt a push on his back as the guard following him offered some physical encouragement with the handle of his weapon.
'Alright!' Courtenay said, looking behind him at the man, 'I'm moving. Surely you won't begrudge a man a last look at the world.'
The guard remained cold-faced and there was no life in those eyes, no crumb of human compassion.
Courtenay turned back, continuing the long walk across the stone slabs towards the platform. He glanced over to his right. The Queen sat atop her white mare, side-saddled as was her preference, dressed in her finery and wearing her neat diamond tiara. A brown mare stood next to Ysabel's, calm and quiet, Winterburne atop the beast, watching him silently from his saddle, his face blank and unforgiving.
How typical, he thought, even though he says nothing, the man still oozes the arrogance of triumph. It could have been Frederick himself sitting there. How he had longed to end both their lives, wished to wipe those sly grins from their gloating faces.
'I see that the vultures are circling!' he called across the courtyard.
Neither of them moved or offered any words in response. He raised his bound wrists to his forehead and signalled a partial salute with his fingers, towards Winterburne, a smirk crossing his face.
To his left stood a drummer, fitted out in the uniform of the Queen’s household guard. A silver-framed drum hung from a black leather strap lying across the man's shoulder.
'Play well master drummer,' Courtenay said, 'I trust that it will be a memorable tune.' The guard ignored him, and he continued on.
Courtenay turned to look ahead. The steps to the guillotine were getting nearer and somehow the dream was fading away, the world sharpening into a focus more clear and precise than he could remember ever experiencing before. He could hear every sound in the courtyard. Birds flew overhead, their song shrill but tuneful. A metal cup banged against the iron bars of a cell up high and behind him. Even his own breathing, he realised, had changed. Where, just a moment ago, his breaths had come long and deep they were now shallow and quick, and his heart raced too, the pounding loud in his ears.
Courtenay looked up as he reached the wooden stairs. The executioner waited above him as he placed his foot on the first step that led up to the platform. It was a hard step for him to take, his legs had become heavy and leaden. He stopped and looked down at his foot. The toes of his leather boots were worn and the the brown leather peeled at the edges where it met the sole of his boot. The stitching was fraying too. How strange that he should notice those things at this of all times.
Another dig in the back as the guard pushed him forward. He turned and glared at the man.
'Patience,' he spat, 'you'll still get your entertainment this day.'
The man's eyes stared back with a cold, purposeful stare. There was no humanity in those eyes, thought Courtenay, they were the eyes of a cold reptile. He turned back and took the next step, and the next, until finally he had reached the level of the platform and found himself only a few feet from the killing contraption.
Courtenay looked up at the figure in the mask; a broad man, dressed in black with a black leather waistcoat. Anonymous, but nonetheless imposing. He was a statement in some regards; powerful, strong, authority personified.
'I hope that you've sharpened the blade, master executioner.' A smirk crossed Courtenay's lips. 'You do realise that you are the most important person I have left in this life, don't you
?'
The executioner appeared to ignore the comment, although he wouldn't be able to see his expression anyway, hidden as it was beneath the covering that the man wore.
The bench was close and he reached down to look at the place that would be his last rest, running his hands over the polished wood, the grain clean and sharp.
'My compliments,' he said, 'it is fine workmanship.' He looked over at the man with the black hood. 'Let's see if it works as well as it looks, eh?'
He lifted his leg over the timber bench and sat, taking a last look around the square. The guards stepped closer and pushed him down until his back lay on the hard wood. Courtenay struggled, but the men were too strong for him, especially with his hands bound, and he offered them little resistance. His strength gone, he kicked out his feet, but the surface was smooth and there was no purchase on his heels. His heart raced as the realisation dawned that the time had come.
'No!' he cried, 'Not yet!'
The guards' hands were strong as they clung to his clothing, dragging him along the bench towards the neck brace.
'I'm not ready!' he said, his voice now more frantic. 'There is more to say!'
The neck brace fell across his throat and he was unable to move, unable to raise himself from the bench as the men held him tight. It was hard, and it was uncomfortable where he lay, his neck stretched and his shoulders pulled down flat against the plank, hands holding him down.
His eyes looked up. The edge of the blade