Read The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane for Free Online Page A

by all the gods and stars that whatever the Lammas people wish to set me to do, I will do it gladly. I have caused the devastation all of you have suffered, and I wish to put it right, as best I may.”
    With that Simon stopped. He could not think what else to tell them. He did not believe it was enough, would ever be enough. Why had he come here? He had no wish to bring yet more grief on those he had once lived amongst. Perhaps he should have stayed in Gathandria.
    He’d already made up his mind to leave, though only the gods knew what he would do next apart from facing the failure of returning to the great city, when Jemelda dropped the herb-dough with a dull thwack onto the wooden surface and swung round to him.
    Into the silence, she laughed, but he heard no amusement in the sound. If anything the shards of colours flowing from her thoughts simply took on a darker tone.
    “What makes you think there are any left here to care for your empty words, Scribe?” she said. “Many of us are dead and the rest have fled to the woods and the fields beyond, desperately seeking for food. Anything to keep their flesh and minds together. I know we in the villages of Lammas have never been a proud people – we are of the land and always took the goodnesses it offered us, and gave back its riches so that it might bud again – but now you and your ilk have driven us to steal and cheat and wound in order to stay alive. We go where the food is and there is little or nothing left for the winter. People starve and children die because of this horror you have brought amongst us, who were always peaceful until you and your pretty smile turned Lord Tregannon’s mind and gave him a taste for things he should not know. What makes you think the remainder of the villagers here, should they be found, would want to listen to you? I do not. Why should they?”
    Simon stared at her. What she said was right. But there had to be a way of piercing through her anger, of finding the road to hope which must surely lie somewhere deep within her. Her mind was so strangely quiet. Was she blocking him? And, if so, how? She had no power to perform such an act, not of her own accord. Something else was happening here and he couldn’t fathom what. He shook his head.
    “They will listen, Jemelda,” he said, “because you tell them to. And you should do so, as otherwise, what other hope is there for your people?”

    Jemelda

    The murderer’s words made her blink. He had no right to be offering words of wisdom in the dark, scented privacy of her kitchen. No right whatsoever. This was her kitchen, hers and Frankel’s, and the gods and stars could damn her to wherever they wished but she was going to make her feelings known in full.
    She slapped him. With the back of her flour-stained hand over his murderous mouth.
    Frankel gasped and put an admonishing hand on her shoulder. The wretched scribe’s head jerked back as his teeth cracked. She was pleased to see blood appear on his lips. She shook off her husband’s hand but made no further move to violence. To her surprise she found she was trembling and the release of her emotions had not been as satisfying as she’d expected.
    After a moment, the scribe raised his head and gazed at her again. There was something in his eyes which made her feel uncomfortable. A kind of acceptance, perhaps, instead of the confrontation she’d looked for. Hoped for. Jemelda took a step back. It surprised her also how Hartstongue did not wipe his mouth clean. The blood remained a crimson gash against his white skin. Winter roganberries on snow.
    When he spoke, his voice was low and she had to lean forward to hear him.
    “You must do what you must do,” he said. “But I will go on begging an audience with the people for as long as it takes, until you allow me to speak with them. And I swear to you again that whatever you wish to do to me, I will not fight it. Do you understand?”
    She smoothed down her apron with hands that