Chapter 3 (Cont.)
The condemned man leaned back in the wooden chair, staring up at the Executioner.
“I knew him better than most. Better than ye even.”
The mention of his father jarred him, put him off balance. This criminal… anarchist… claiming to have known his father better than he had, was unnerving.
“Doubtful.”
“Aye, believe what ye like.” The man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yer father was a good man, better than wat people gave ‘im credit for.”
His words drew the Executioner back.
“What do you mean?”
The condemned man stared up at him, hazel eyes clear and intelligent.
“Ye think ye knew ‘im, aye? Ye dinna know him. At least naught the man that were yer true father.”
The Executioner stood up from the table and glared down at the man.
“You speak in riddles and lies. Speak plain. What are you trying to say?”
A grin broke his dirt flecked face.
“Either way ye’ll put yer axe across me shoulders and…” he drew his finger across his throat. “Pop goes the weasel, aye?”
The Executioner nodded.
“Aye.”
“Promise it’ll be quick.”
The Executioner nodded.
The condemned man considered him, allowing it to sink in. Finally, he spoke.
“The man they say is yer father, ain’t. Go speak with the anarchs, they’ll tell ye true.”
The Executioner stared down at him, then turned and walked to the gate. He banged his gloved fist against the cell, and a guard appeared to let him out. When he finally was outside, he glanced back at the condemned man.
“I promised, it will be quick.”
D. H. Sayers 