A Brigand's Beheading and Burial
Forum Home > Public : Stories > A Brigand's Beheading and BurialA captured brigand accepts the consequences of her deeds, as does the robber baroness she serves, and what happens to her mortal coil after beheading by axe and block.
Inspired partially by the Manor Lords game, working with a similar kind of high-medieval world. Just explicitly fantasy rather than mostly historical like the inspiration.
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This was not the first time that Jania had waited for the headsman, but there was some strange comfort in knowing that it would be the last time. She had not sobbed the way she had before, she had not begged for mercy. The only salvation she had prayed for was a fair judgment of her soul after death. A calm had enveloped her as she waited for the inevitable, as if she had already accepted her mortality.
Or perhaps it was the fact that this time, Jania had committed the crime she was to be beheaded for.
She had spent her final days in the dungeon of the castle, built into the stone foundation of the otherwise wooden fortification. Light was provided by a few small grates that faced the courtyard, the sun shining bright this morning. It was not particularly habitable, as the floor consisted of soil trampled into shape with hay thrown over it and the bed consisted of a few reasonably large benches with old hides thrown on top, but it also had not been meant to house prisoners for any prolonged period.
Having finished with tying her auburn hair into a single braid, Jania slid it to hang down her back where it dangled between and past her shoulder blades. She had cleaned herself as best she could, the guards having provided a bucket of water and rags for her to wipe herself with. As she had cleaned her robust body, the blemishes of her life were as clean as they would be, be it that from labor beneath the sun or the scar that ran across her left cheek.
Jania put a hand to the scar. The was an irony there had earned it in her home town’s militia fighting brigands. Now, she was to be executed as one such brigand, so far from her hometown.
At least unlike at her hometown, she had been allowed to wear more than a white underdress to her execution. A simple green tunic, the off-white undershirt beneath it, the brown hose for her legs and the worn black-tarred boots for her feet.
And she would not perish alone, for she shared this sentence with her mistress.
“Lady Tabea?” Jania asked as she watched her liege-lady staring out one of the grates.
The robber knight turned. Unlike Jania she was wearing a dress, dyed blue with a yellow pattern embroidered around the hems over a white underdress, recovered from their baggage after capture and allowed as a dignity for the condemned noblewoman. Tabea stood a foot taller than Jania, even in slippers rather than riding boots, her black hair tied up into a bun that would leave her neck clear for the coming strike.
“Jania,” Tabea answered with a slow nod. “You are prepared, then?”
“I am, mi’lady.”
Silence fell as Tabea turned back to the grate, looking towards the sky. Jania had always been wary of presuming to know what the highborn thought, for their station had concerns that Jania had never been able to grasp. Yet time spent serving Lady Tabea as a woman-at-arms had her see that the highborn shared many of the same worries and fears as their subjects, including that of fate.
“I am sorry that it came to this, Jania. Your loyalty deserves a better reward than an execution.”
“You earned it, mi’lady. You spared me a slave’s lot, and let me fight. If not for you, I would have slaved my life away wishing I had been beheaded instead.”
Tabea half-smiled. “Perhaps. I am glad that I was at least able to spare you that injustice, and you have more than repaid any debt from that. I attacked the caravan for my own ends, not for you.”
The caravan. How could she forget that night? The Builder’s Guild so confident that they would be able to use the slaves as unpaid labor to enrich themselves. Like Jania, the others in the cage with her had been bought from those condemned, lining the pockets of other rich burghers to pervert justice towards profit. To ‘pay off their debt’, as if there would be any honest accounting. Then their captors had been ambushed and killed to the last.
“Yet you freed us. I did not need to follow you for long to learn how uncommon that was.”
Tabea nodded. “Thank you, Jania. I hope that you find your rest after today.”
“Likewise, mi’lady.”
They fell silent again. Their executions were imminent, hence why they were both sharing the dungeon now. Lady Tabea had been allowed to prepare herself in more fitting quarters and with aid from the castle’s servants, but she still needed to be kept under lock and key lest she escape. A noble awaiting ransom would swear not to escape and be kept in a form of guest-arrest, but such an oath was no longer binding if they were to be executed.
The trial had been rather swift, particularly as their employer Baron Hildebrand had not declared the formal feud that he had claimed to be starting when he hired them. Thus it was brigandage, rather than an act of war. The local lord, Lady Kristiane, had petitioned the provincial court once she had carried out the trial and had received back permission to carry out Tabea’s sentence. Lady Tabea had not pushed for ransom, as she did not have the means to pay her worth and knew better than to insult her captor’s sense of justice.
Jania sat down on the bench she had been using as a bed, leaning against the wall. She was not sure exactly how much time she had left, and if she was honest the wait was the worst part. Knowing that it was soon. Last time, she had frantically been praying for deliverance. How naive had she been. This time, she felt she had already said her prayers.
There was no point in trying to exercise her body, for soon it would be buried. And escape was not an option: besides the guard right outside the locked door who would stop them, they would have to get to the courtyard and then somehow escape the walls of the small castle, probably being killed in the process. It would just be a lot of effort for how she was going to die anyways.
“If I may, my lady,” Jania asked as Tabea had sat down on the bench opposite, “how are you feeling?”
“Tired,” Tabea admitted. “Wishing I had been killed in that skirmish instead of captured. Beheading is an honorable way to be executed, but I still wish I had fallen in battle as a noble should.”
“Would it really matter?” Jania asked. “Death is death.”
“Perhaps, but how one dies is important.” Tabea closed her eyes. “I should not complain. Lady Kristiane and her retainers have comported themselves honorably and treated me well. Have they shown you the same?”
“As courteous as could be expected, given what we did.” She looked towards the door. The guard outside shuffled, his maille shirt rattling as he did so.
“You seem surprised.”
“We burned down two farmsteads and were going to do more, and we killed at least a half-dozen people,” Jania pointed out. “Never mind the caravans we attacked. Sure, those were guild caravans, but they still trade in the area. I expected to be tortured.”
“Lady Kristiane is confident in her authority,” Tabea noted with a smile that surprised Jania. “And a good woman. She merely needs to carry out justice, and her people will be satisfied. She does not need a ghastly display to prove her power.”
Jania frowned as she considered it. How could a less drawn out spectacle be a sign of authority and confidence?
Then again, maybe it was for the best she not dwell on it. A lord who felt a need for spectacle would make her death painful, be it breaking her on the wheel or torturing her before death. If not outright torturing her to death. A beheading, even if a less honorable one by the axe instead of the sword, was quick and clean by comparison.
Still, did that mean the bailiff back home was confident when he had sentenced her to death by beheading, or was he trying to appease another group while her death appeased that merchant?
“What would you make of how I was to be executed, before the Builder’s Guild’s false mercy?” Jania asked as her curiosity was now piqued.
Tabea put a hand to her chin. “Remind me: you were condemned for murdering a visiting merchant’s daughter, and the merchant made a fuss over it?”
“Yes, though it was self-defense.” And it had been: that merchant’s daughter had drunkenly attacked her after mistaking her for a servant and not taking kindly to being corrected. Jania, to her embarrassment, had not held her own in that brawl and found herself being choked to death. That was when she had drawn her dagger and stabbed the merchant’s daughter.
“That’s right, the guard had not seen the full context.” Lady Tabea nodded a she remembered. “How many of your fellow townsmen believed your story, though?”
“It seemed like many did,” Jania admitted. “There was a lot of relief in the crowd when I was to be ‘spared’.” Or maybe it was just her own distorting her memory?
“Then perhaps the axe was a balancing act. The merchant demanded your death and the guard only saw the dead daughter, not that she had tried to strangle you. However, executing one’s own to appease an outsider always has issues, especially if there is doubt to the guilt of the condemned. A quick execution can say it upheld the law, or what the law demanded from what it knew, without undue cruelty. It would make the matter easier to forget, too.”
“Huh,” Jania admitted as she was able to see how that would work. “So, not making a spectacle can be strong or weak, depending on why it’s being done?”
“You have it, Jania.”
“Too bad I will not get to use this,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. Where the axe would soon cut. “But maybe it is good to understand the world before I leave it.”
“Perhaps this is how you would like to pass our final hours?” Tabea offered as something seemed to hit her.
“I would be honored, mi’l-” she caught herself, clearing her throat. “My lady.”
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It had been enlightening, getting an educating view into a world she had only heard of or been told was above her. Alas, her education in it would be all too short as the time of execution came.
The guards had come prepared, four men-at-arms to escort them as well as the local priest who offered to hear any final confessions, if there was something they had not been able to unburden prior. Neither of them had anything to confess, for they had already done so when they saw him last.
One guard, wearing a jack with green cloth over the plates, produced a pair of iron manacles and approached Lady Tabea, briefly bowing his head. “Mi’lady, please place your hands forward.”
Lady Tabea nodded, presenting her hands with her wrists facing each other. The guard placed the manacles around her and locked them. Tabea gave them a slight pull, seeing just how far apart the five links of iron chain could go and making sure she could put her hands together. Then she nodded, satisfied with her restraint. The cleric passed her a small pouch of coins.
Meanwhile, another approached Jania with a length of rope. “Turn around and put your hands behind you,” the woman-at-arms ordered. She wore a green waffenrock over her maille, cut just below her waist and a kettle helmet with a full maille coif. Not unlike Jania herself had worn once, though she had worn a brigandine over gambeson instead of maille.
“Is that my old helmet?” Jania asked as she obediently turned and put her hands behind her.
“No, it’s still in the armory,” the woman answered as she tied Jania’s hands together. “You’d rather die in armor, like in those manuscripts?”
“Why not?” Jania asked as she felt her chest pushed forward by her arms being stuck behind her. “I fought for my liege lady, just as you serve yours.”
The guard scoffed as she finished tying the ropes together. Jania also lightly tested her bonds and found they were secure. This was it then. It was time to die, and the noblewoman who had sentenced them would not relent. Jania turned back around to face the door.
Lady Tabea was led out first, holding her head high as two of the men-at-arms and the priest led them out of the dungeon. Jania was behind, with the other two guards behind her. The woman who had bound Jania’s hands kept a hand on her right shoulder, just in case she had any ideas. Jania kept her head high as well, her auburn braid hanging between her arms as she walked.
They were led out of the dungeon, up stone stairs that took them into the courtyard of the wooden castle. By this point the sunlight had gone behind the clouds, not thick but gray with rain to come. Jania still winced as she was led into the courtyard, eyes stinging from the change in light.
As her eyes cleared, Jania could take another look at the castle’s courtyard. The wooden walls that ringed consisted of two layers: logs twice as tall as a man as the outside, and behind it platforms for guards to patrol on and shoot from. Within this protection were various small structures around the manor itself: storage, residence for servants and soldiers, a small stable for their horses, and the platform where they would die.
The wooden platform, elevated about a foot or so, was along the dirt road leading into the castle, and already a crowd had gathered from the nearby village and smallholdings. They had come to witness their liege lady dispense justice, and while they had been talking among themselves they had gone quiet when they noticed who was being brought out. A little encouragement from a few guards in the crowd also helped.
They were led up the step at the back of the platform, facing the keep itself and where they had been led from. The center of the platform had been covered in straw, while a little to the left (still on straw) was an executioner’s block with a cutout on both sides. It had been cleaned, even if there was still the faint stain of past victim’s blood. A basket sat on the side facing the crowd, and the single-bladed axe that would sever her head was resting against it.
A rough coffin also lay on the platform, towards the back. Only one coffin, though.
The executioner stood stoically, square-bladed sword in hand as he watched impassively. He had dressed in a jupon, the same kind of jacket worn by some men-at-arms to protect their armor from the elements. His was quartered between sections of muted red and green. He wore no mask, for his role was well known in his community, his full brown beard and hair trimmed close to his body. His hands were protected by leather gloves.
Next to him was a herald, a portly man dressed in a surcoat bearing his liege-lady’s colors and sigil, scroll in hand and with a rather well-decorated chaperon of both colors. Spectacles adorned his face, hanging just low enough on his nose to seem to be specifically for reading.
The lady herself stood above, on a balcony out of the side of the keep where she might witness and affirm the execution as was custom. Turning, Jania could just make out Kristiane’s presence and see her clothing. A conservative blue dress with a white cloth laid over the top and back of her head, kept in place by a brass circlet.
Jania was given a nudge by her escort. “Eyes forward,” the woman-at-arms grumbled.
The condemned women were taken just behind the middle of the platform. Jania was on the left, behind the block by a few feet, while Tabea was to the right so she could easily walk to the pile of straw. The guard that had chained Tabea stood to her left, while the woman-at-arms that had bound Jania was still behind her and kept a hand on her shoulder.
The herald stepped forward to the front of the platform, unfurling the scroll. The crowd quieted to hear the sentence they longed for.
“Good people!” the herald began with a booming voice, “By the authority of your liege lady and the provincial court of our good King Karl the Second: today this robber knight, Lady Tabea von Erlhardt, and her retainer, Jania, are to be put to death. The crimes in which they are condemned are as follows…”
He recited the list, a fairly short one of brigandage, arson for the homesteads they had burned down, and the deaths they had caused. He omitted the men-at-arms from Lady Kristiane’s garrison, which Jania now suspected was a way to emphasize the pain inflicted upon her subjects.
“… As such,” her herald concluded, “Lady Tabea von Erlhardt is to be beheaded by the sword. Her retainer shall be beheaded by the axe. Such will be the fate of all brigands, be they robber baron or common outlaw, in the domain of Lady Kristiane von Nusslohe!”
The crowd was excited. The justice they had wished to see carried out, and the spectacle of their vengeance, was upon them. They murmured among themselves, all while Jania wondered what it was about. She remembered how she had watched the execution of brigands herself, eager to see the strength of her town’s law and the demise of the wretches who would and had hurt her friends and townsfolk.
So, this was how it felt like to be said wretches.
The executioner walked up to Lady Tabea, bowing his head as he spoke quietly. “Please forgive the work I must do, my lady.”
“There is nothing to forgive, executioner,” Tabea answered as she pressed the pouch into his hand. “Ensure that our deaths are carried out properly.”
The executioner took it and nodded. “I shall strive to do so, my lady.” He took a step back and nodded to the herald, who stepped away and let the cleric step forward to begin his recitation.
Some of the crowd bowed their heads to follow with it, while others tried to jeer only to be quieted by those near them. Or in one case, a man loudly declared they did not deserve their rites only to be silenced as a guard delivered a swift strike to his leg with the butt end of her spear.
For her part, Jania bowed her head, quietly reciting the words as the cleric spoke. She was to outlive her liege lady, but they would share the same last rites.
As they finished, the cleric turned. “Lady Tabea, do you have any words to those whom you have wronged?”
Tabea took a half step forward, raising her voice. “I do not contest the judgment upon me, for I understand the wrongs I have done. I only wish you to understand it was an act of contract, not malice. We were hired to be the first strike of a feud, and when called to declare his feud Baron Hildebrand chose to feign ignorance!”
The crowd jeered, not believing her lady’s sincerity. ‘Murderess!’ they cried. ‘Bandit scum!’ ‘Wretch!’
Jania’s body tensed as Tabea turned, looking towards the lady of the manor. Jania was able to half turn to watch the exchange, the guard behind her keeping a firm grip but permitting it.
“Do what honor requires, Lady Kristiane,” Tabea added, “I accept your lawful judgment.”
Lady Kristiane held up a hand to quieten the crowd, then responded to the condemned noblewoman’s words. “I thank you for your understanding, Lady Tabea. Today you will answer for your deeds, and in death you shall find your forgiveness.”
It was ritual posturing, but Jania understood it now. Establishing a lack of malice, and keeping the baron’s hand in it present in the minds of the people. No doubt in the future, when the feud was properly declared, their actions would be used to rally Kristiane’s people in the call to arms. Perhaps they had even discussed it when Tabea had been taken to a guest room to prepare herself for the execution.
One man in the crowd called for them to get on with it, a sentiment Jania found herself agreeing with.
Evidently, so did Lady Kristiane as she gave the order. “Executioner, carry out the sentence!”
Jania turned back towards the front, and Tabea turned towards her. She nodded to Jania, and Jania responded in kind. This was farewell.
With that mutual understanding, Tabea strode forward towards the pile of straw. One of the guards followed, but did not need to direct her. At that point, the executioner had taken up a position and bid her to kneel. Tabea did so, settling down on both of her knees and lowering her head.
She was leaning forward to do it, hands clasped close to her chest in prayer so they would be out of the way, while trying to keep her shoulders low. She was exposing as much of her neck as she could, the black bun of her hair pointing to the heavens while her face was directly towards the earth. At this point, Jania could not see her face or her expression. She could only watch as the executioner whispered a request for last words.
The crowd held its breath, as did Jania as she could not look away, nor could she hear her liege lady’s last testament.
The executioner lifted his sword, holding it just above Tabea’s neck but not making contact with the exposed nape. Then he raised the untipped blade, eyeing the trajectory that it would travel with a practiced keenness. He rose it above his head, and then swung down.
The blade cut through Tabea’s neck without resistance. Her body – both Jania’s own and that of her liege lady – tensed as the cold steel severed the head from the body. Tabea’s head fell down directly, obstructed from Jania’s sight until it rolled slightly to the left. Jania could see Tabea’s face, tensed with her eyes pressed shut. There was a faint twitch, as if she had tried to blink but had stopped herself from doing so. Blood spurted from the severed neck, staining the knees of Tabea’s blue dress.
Her body had tilted forward, but fortunately had also fell down. Tabea’s body pressed down against her legs, and came to rest there with a slight tilt towards the executioner. Blood continued to squirt out, both from her severed head which now stained the yellow pattern around her body’s shoulders and pooled in the straw before her. At least her face had been spared further stains.
The executioner stepped back, assessing his work as the peasants in the crowd applauded a job well done. He returned to his stoic stance from before, planting the untipped sword against the straw as if he was resting a warsword.
Jania was still staring, watching as Tabea’s face finally began to relax, eyes ever so slightly opening. She was dead, but she had died at peace. A small dribble of blood was coming from her mouth, but otherwise she had been cleanly beheaded.
“Rest in peace, mi’lady,” Jania prayed, barely audible even to the guard behind her.
The cleric gave an instruction, and two people stepped out of the crowd and were allowed past by the guards. One was a man wearing a beige shirt with a dull blue hood left down. The other was a woman in a brown dress with a white apron, and wore a white wimple tied to her head with a red band. Both climbed onto the platform, and Jania watched as they walked towards the coffin and carried it to where Tabea’s freshly dead corpse lady.
The man pulled out two sheets of rough brown linen from the coffin, and the woman pulled out a long roll of hemp. These were set to the side, save for one sheet of linen which was unfolded and laid over the rough wooden coffin, settling inside.
The woman grabbed Tabea’s headless body by the feet, while the man held her shoulders, pulling Tabea’s body straight and laying the still-bleeding corpse on its back. The guard that had escorted Tabea stepped forward, undoing the manacles around her wrists and taking them, leaving Tabea’s hands to limply fall to the side.
That done, the two waited a few moments for the worst of the blood to spill, then picked up her body as they had before. The body was set into the coffin, where it pressed against the linen. Some more blood came out as the limp body was shaken by the movement, but most of it had been spilled. The woman arranged Tabea’s arms and legs in the coffin, while the man picked up her head and set it down in the coffin roughly where it would have been if it was still attached.
Their job done, they stepped away to the side of the platform behind the executioner. They had left unused a sheet of linen and the roll of hemp.
That would be for Jania. And as she realized that, she felt her legs began to shake. She was about to die.
The executioner handed the man his sword, who set it down against a simple rack on the platform, and walked towards Jania.
“It is time,” he said courteously. “Hold your head high, and relax. You will join your liege lady soon enough.”
“Will,” Jania swallowed. When had her throat gone dry? “Will it be quick? I… I have nothing to pay you.”
“I do not need payment to do good job,” the executioner answered, then nodded to the guard behind her. “Bring her to the block.”
“Yes, Heinz.” The guard waited a moment as the executioner walked towards the block, then she gave Jania a nudge forward. Jania almost stumbled, having stood still as long as she had, but she walked forward. It was like her body had decided the time to die had come and was eager to get it over with, even as her heart thumped louder and louder.
The crowd jeered, some demanding a bigger show from the peasant wench, such as breaking her. Others taunted about how it was deserved.
It is deserved, Jania told herself. Endure it, accept her fate. Show her true character in her last moments. She did not hold her head high as she stared at the block, but she stayed upright, her chest pushed forward by her hands tied behind her back.
Jania stood at the headsman’s block now. The executioner had pulled the axe from the block and gave it a final once-over.
It was not a bad death, all things considered. She had not been worked to the grave like she could have been, if the Builder’s Guild had their way. She had found honorable service as a woman-at-arms. Yes, her liege lady was a robber baroness, but it was sworn service all the same.
“Do you wish word to be sent to your hometown?” the executioner asked quietly.
“No,” Jania answered. They did not need to know she had lived only to die here.
“As you wish,” the executioner nodded. “Say your last words, and kneel.”
Last words. What were to be her last words. How had she forgotten to think of something? What should she say? Affirm her loyalty to her slain liege lady? Beg for forgiveness and a quick death? A prayer for fair judgment in the afterlife?
“Just do it,” she finally said, not realizing what she had done until a hand pushed her to her knees. They hurt from the impact against the wooden platform, even with the straw, and the same hand pressed her forward. Her neck lay against the block, and the weight of her head pressed her throat against the ridge.
It felt like she had been jabbed in the throat and it hurt to breathe, but did she need to anymore? The hand that had been on her shoulder lifted, and she felt someone grabbing her braid. To her left she could see her auburn hair fall forward, the tip of her braid hanging in the basket, then she felt a hand pressing against her back, keeping her in position.
The executioner hefted his axe.
Jania was staring into the basket now. This was it. She was about to die. She tensed as she felt the cold steel press against the nape of her neck.
Steady, she reminded herself, and inhaled. As she did, she could no longer hear the crowd. It no longer mattered to her. The pressure on her throat remained, but it would be over soon. Her earlier shakes were gone, replaced by an unseasonable chill.
It was not such a bad wa-
Any further thoughts were cut off as she felt something sharp cut into her neck, before her world became a blur of wooden brown and red. She felt remarkably light as she fell, but had no time to be aware of the drop. Her face smacked into the wicker basket, tilting side to side as her braid had pulled her to the left and even cushioned the impact slightly.
Her head came to a stop lying on her left cheek, her scar pressing into the wicker. Her eyes were open as she looked to her right, barely making out a red-stained blade being pulled from a block before she was splattered with red. She could taste copper as blood got into her half open mouth, and despite the chill in the rest of her head the bottom of her neck felt warm.
She could vaguely hear cheering, but could not process any words. She felt some vague sense of motion behind her head, something scrabbling back there. She felt a tug. She fell forward, facing down in the basket. She was pulled away from it.
Suddenly she was pulled to a stand. No, no standing, but she was seeing bright color before her, something holding her braid over her head.
She blinked once, trying to understand, but understanding eluded her. She should have been able to understand. She could not.
She was tired. So tired.
Unable to hear.
Her visioned blackened.
Jania knew no more.
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Though this was the end of Jania’s life, it was not the end of her mortal fate.
The executioner had severed her head in a single stroke, even with the resistance from her tensing. Jania’s head had landed in the basket, pulled towards the left by the extra weight of her braid before rolling in it. The same weight had seen that the head ended its roll on her left cheek.
The execution of the last of the brigands that had done such great harm to them brought cheers to the crowd, particularly as they did not need fear unwittingly offending their betters now. They had savored the lead up and the catharsis as the axe fell.
When the executioner pulled his axe away, blood from Jania’s severed neck sprayed into the basket, splattering her face and joining that which had been pooling into the wicker from her severed head. Her auburn hair was staining with her blood, but most of her headless body’s blood would pool against the cut in the block. Without her head to pull it forward, her body had also slumped as Tabea’s had, the guard’s hand guiding the stump into the block’s cutout.
The guard then let go, stepping around the body and reaching into the basket. Leather gloves protected her hands from the blood within and she grabbed Jania’s braid, pulling her head into the air.
“Behold good people!” she declared to the cheers of the crowd, “the fate of those that prey upon you! You stand witness to the justice delivered to you, the justice of our lady, Kristiana von Nussolhe!”
Jania’s last spark of consciousness had faded as her head was held aloft, and she had been unable to comprehend the declaration.
The shock of the axe’s fall had started to pass from her head at this point. Her mouth hung half-open, slowly opening more as the weight of her jaw pulled it towards the earth with no soul there to bid it to stay closed. Her eyes relaxed, eyelids heavy but unable to stay shut, and the tip of her tongue had just stuck out to her teeth. Blood glistened, dripping from her severed neck and also slowly running down her face.
Of course, a head was a heavy thing to hold aloft, even for a woman used to wielding a rather large mace in combat. The guard let the head lower above the basket as it continued to drip blood, then dropped it. Jania’s head landed with a wet squelch and rocked inside the wicker basket, particularly as the braid landed behind her head and pulled it so that it faced to the right side. All while her head was stained further in the pooling blood.
By this point, Jania’s headless body had slumped to the left, spasms passing through and causing it to uncurl itself from its kneeling, and the blood her shoulders had kept in the block spilled off onto the straw. The executioner took his axe to the other side of the platform, setting to work cleaning both of his blades. Meanwhile, the gravediggers came to deal with the second body.
The cleric looked over the display with a sigh. Lady Tabea at least would receive burial in church grounds, once her body had been cleaned and sent to her kin. Jania’s fate would be that of her already slain accomplices, and while both would eventually be interred the head and body would take entirely different journeys.
The start would be shared, in a sense. The brother gravedigger grabbed the as-of-yet unused linen shroud, laying it out flat next to Jania’s corpse as its last spasms faded and the body began to relax. The sister gravedigger began to deal with the body, laying it on its side, and started to untie the rope around her wrists. The woman-at-arms that had escorted Jania to her execution watched, waiting for the blood to dry more before she could take the head to its fate.
As the ropes came loose, Jania’s arms slumped to the ground behind her. A faint rumble ripped through the air, and those present winced as they realized that Jania’s sphincters had begun to relax. The sister gravedigger looked over the corpse and sighed as she saw a dark stain forming at Jania’s crotch.
“So much for dignity in death,” the gravedigger lamented.
“You’re going to keep her down anyways,” the woman-at-arms offered, leading to mirthless chuckles as Jania’s headless body was shuffled onto the linen shroud, chest towards the ground.
They wrapped the linen around the body, and tied it with the hemp rope around her ankles, knees, waist, and shoulders. Tight enough to stay together, but not so tight it would be tough to remove later. This was just for transport, not for the burial.
It was at this stage of death’s journey that the body and head went their separate ways.
Perhaps in the afterlife, Jania’s soul would ponder which journey to experience first, if it could not experience both together.
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The journey of Jania’s head would begin with the blood having dried enough.
The woman-at-arms that had bound and escorted her to the execution had waited until the sister gravedigger had carried the body away, during which time the brother gravedigger and the priest had put a cover on Lady Tabea’s coffin and moved it onto a handcart. They would take it to the church to be given treatment befit a noblewoman, but Jania was owed no such treatment.
When the woman-at-arms was satisfied that the blood was sufficiently dry, she reached back into the basket. The blood was still sticky and glistened, particularly that which had ended up soaked against the scar on Jania’s left cheek. At least now it would not splatter everywhere as she carried the head by the braid again, taking it out past the castle’s gatehouse.
The subjects living outside did not have a wall as a formally chartered town might, but custom remained the same for displaying justice for all to witness.
Outside the wooden walls were a half dozen or so heads adorning wooden stakes. They belonged to those brigands whose heads had still been intact after the skirmish, rather than having been caved in by a war hammer or spear to the face. One stake had been left bare, reserved for the one brigand (other than Lady Tabea herself) who had been taken alive in the fight.
The woman-at-arms shifted Jania’s head to hold it with both hands, cupping the brigand’s cheeks from the front. Then she lifted the head, making sure the braid was clear, then pressed it onto the stake up through the hole that had been Jania’s throat.
The head slid on with a wet squelch, particularly as the spike penetrated through flesh towards the spine and was stuck where it met the skull. Taking a step back, the woman-at-arms nodded to herself as she looked at the staked head, which was already losing color as it pivoted slightly forward.
Maybe she should take a look at this brigand’s kettle helmet. It was a nice one, after all, and it would be easy enough to make the trade with the armorer. She briefly considered if maybe she should clean the head a little, but decided against it. Let some penitent pilgrim show mercy to the dead, or if the cleric felt offended he could order it.
For now, she needed to wash up, and she could definitely justify a trip to the bath houses to do it. Her clothes would need thorough laundering, as her green waffenrock had red bloodstains on it, to say nothing of her gloves and sleeves. She could clean the worst off with a quick visit to a water through, but it would need a thorough cleaning once her watch that day was done. Whistling to herself, the woman-at-arms walked back to the manor to continue her duties.
Jania’s head remained on the spike. Her jaw now hung open and her tongue had pressed forward to meet her lower lips. Her eyelids were half open, while her eyes had rolled upwards so her irises were no longer visible, and soon clouded over. Her auburn hair hung behind her, the braid being picked up by the wind and swaying with it as the sky darkened as gray clouds rolled in. By afternoon, it began to rain, soaking her lifeless head.
The rain would wash away some of the blood, but as the night came and went there was still red stained into Jania’s head and hair. There her head remained, sometimes commented on by those who had witnessed the execution. A traveler occasionally passed only to wince at the reminder of certain yet harsh justice. A condemned criminal would falter at the sight, understanding keenly the fate that awaited them as they saw the heads. Others used to the sight paid it no mind. Jania’s head was just one more brigand’s among several.
Exposed to the wind and rain of the elements, and for the hunger of scavengers, Jania’s head would rot away. Crows pecked at her eyes and soon consumed them, then made their way gorging holes through her cheeks and the rest of her head. Flies and maggots would attempt to nest in there, but would find themselves and their eggs victims of other birds. Jania’s auburn hair lost its luster, and in the coming weeks her skull began to become visible through her rotted flesh.
It was at this point that the cleric returned with the gravediggers, overseeing the removal of Jania’s head and those of the other brigands whose heads had decayed too far. They were pulled from the stakes and collected into a large linen basket. Jania’s head was the fourth removed, landing in with a dry thud as her head hit face first and the stringy remains of her hair followed. The hair, dried as it was now, acted as a cushion for the next head removed and dropped into the basket.
The heads were brought to the gravediggers’ home, far from the villages and the castle, where the gravediggers began the process of excarnation. Within the wooden wall of the homestead was an outdoor work area with a long firepit, over which an iron rod held three iron pots. The brother gravedigger set to work stoking the fire, while the sister gravedigger removed the heads from the basket and set them to look towards the next step, then drew water from the nearby well. Jania’s rotted head lay on her right cheek, and was not picked among the first batch.
It was after the first skulls had been cleaned that Jania’s was picked up again by the brother gravedigger, who carried her with gloved hands around her jaw and placed it into an empty pot. More water was poured into it from a fresh bucket, then a lid was set over it. Over several hours the water was brought to and kept at a boil. The flesh and hair that remained separated from the skull.
When the gravediggers returned and pulled Jania’s skull and top end of her spine from the pot, the remaining flesh was gone save for some scraps that had stuck to the skull during removal. This was washed away, and then the skull was placed in a second sack with those that had already been cleaned.
When all the skulls and spine ends had been stripped of flesh, the gravediggers brought them to the local church where the cleric received the remains. They had all been subject to justice, but now that it was done it was time to put them to rest. The priest held a small service, attended by a few passing pilgrims wishing to show good intentions by offering prayers for the deceased, and then placed the skulls in the ossuary behind the church.
It was little more than a massive clay box, but all subjects were equal in death, and the bones of the guilty and innocent alike mingled there for their final disposition. It was here that Jania’s skull remained, anonymous among the common dead. In the years to come, the rest of her bones would come to join her skull.
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The journey of Jania’s body from her place of execution did not need to wait for the blood to dry, as the linen was thick enough to absorb what remained.
The linen shroud was tied with hemp rope, and the sister gravedigger rolled it over. Jania’s chest was now facing the sky, and the gravedigger knelt to pull the corpse over her shoulder. Jania’s headless body was held so that her legs were to the gravedigger’s front, and her torso hung behind her, balanced at the hips. The limp body sagged and bounced in the shroud as the gravedigger carried it off. Out the gatehouse, past the severed heads of Jania’s deceased comrades, whom her own head would soon join.
The sister gravedigger huffed. She had hoped to be the one tending to Lady Tabea’s body, but apparently the sex that she desired was more important than the sex she actually was when it came to propriety. Thus, her brother in faith and service would prepare the noblewoman’s body for transport to her kin as he would have no desire, while she had to haul this woman’s corpse home.
“Not to worry,” she muttered to the headless body, “the last one who called me a corpse-fucker was picking her teeth off of the tavern green.”
The only response was an increasingly wet shoulder as Jania’s bladder finished emptying, and the squelch of her sphincter’s releases.
She really had rolled a bust for this execution, hadn’t she?
Like other unclean laborers such as the executioner or the gong farmers that took away the excrement, the gravediggers had to reside outside of the confines of both the manorial castle and the villages it protected. Unlike the executioner, at least, they were directly under the priest’s protection and had been inducted as lay-servants of the faith. Thus, ‘brother and sister’ gravedigger despite no blood relation.
Jania’s headless body continued to shift in its shroud as she was carried past the treeline and up the hill. The gravediggers’ house had a wooden wall around it, obstructing vision to what went on within. The dogs barked, but calmed down once they saw their mistress had returned home and gave her space.
In a shed within the homestead, Jania’s body was laid out on a wooden table and the sister gravedigger caught her breath. “Heavy one, aren’t you?” the sister gravedigger lamented as she rolled her shoulder, sighing as she laid a hand on it. “How much did you drink before your execution, anyways?”
Silence was her answer, but it was to be expected. The sister gravedigger stepped out to get what she needed, leaving Jania’s body within its linen shroud on the table. Her body had been set down on her back, and within her hands lay by her waist. She had defecated and urinated herself, much of it staining her hose and sliding down her legs during the journey.
Beneath the shroud and her stained clothes (blood and otherwise), Jania’s body had paled and blood had begun to pool in her body by her legs and shoulders. Some had pushed past what had dried in her neck, but most of it remained inside her at least. Now that she was lying down, it began to settle again, discoloring the parts of her body that were resting against the table.
Of course, the headless body only had the sense of touch to go by, had it a soul there to experience it. It had only known the pressure of what it was resting against and what had slid or leaked out of it as it relaxed. It had no way of hearing or seeing the return of the sister gravedigger, carrying a bucket, rags, and a wooden stake.
Jania’s body could only feel as the ropes were undone and the linen was unwrapped, pulled out from beneath her. It could only feel as her right hand was raised to see just how stiff she was (starting to stiffen but still moving smoothly). It could not hear the gravedigger’s apology for what needed to be done, but could feel the clothes being tugged off. It could feel the limp fall of the arms as they were grabbed then let go as necessary. It could feel the rags wiping away the posthumous soiling, and cleaning the body with rags soaked in water.
The sister gravedigger at least could appreciate the care the brigand had taken for her body in life. She always admired the fitness of a robust woman-at-arms. Too bad that she was a corpse now. Still, the gravedigger did note the dead woman’s breasts sagging into her body as the weight of the world pulled down, or a little bounces when she moved the body around such as flipping Jania’s corpse to clean the backside, or even how there was no reaction as she washed the dead woman’s crotch. The rain had begun by now, much to the gravedigger’s amusement as she wondered if she could have just taken her outside to be washed by nature.
Still, the job was done soon enough, and the sister gravedigger steeled herself for what was necessary. Those subjects who betrayed the world’s order and were justly punished for it were liable to have unfinished business, or to desire revenge. While one revenant could be handled by the guards or better yet the priest, or if desperate a family’s determined defense of their homestead, the last thing any community needed was for a group of them to rise at once.
Thus, the gravedigger rolled Jania’s body onto its back again and laid her out, exposing her. The sister gravedigger grabbed a wooden hand mallet with her right hand and the wooden stake with her left, positioning the tip of the stake between Jania’s breasts and over her dead heart.
With practiced aim, the gravedigger hammered the back end of the stake, driving it into Jania’s heart, then removed her left hand to strike again, firmly penetrating the stake through Jania’s heart and into her spine. There it would remain.
It was the main necessary step, but at least the others could be done once the corpse was decently clothed again. Jania’s clothes were still soiled, especially the shoulders of her tunic which were caked in blood, but had gone back on easily enough. Then the sister gravedigger cut shorter lengths of hemp for the next steps.
Jania’s hands were crossed over her stomach, which was starting to faintly bloat by now, and were tied together at the wrists. Then her legs were crossed over so her left foot was on the right side, and another hemp rope was tied around her ankles to hold them together. That done, the body was once more wrapped up in the linen shroud and tied together. At the ankles, at the knees, at the waist, around her stomach, just below her shoulders, and one length down the whole body. This time, it was tied tightly, not to be undone for years to come.
By the time the sister gravedigger was finished, her not-by-blood-brother gravedigger and the cleric had come, and thankfully with the handcart. Once they had grabbed their cloaks and spades, Jania’s prepared corpse was placed on the cart, and then they took her deeper into the woods.
Though eventually the bones would go into an ossuary, while the crime was still fresh it was not right to bury those who had been wronged with those who had done the vile deed. For the latter, corpse pits would be dug away from the dwellings of honest folk, where the foul dead might rot away instead of being returned to the earth in the hallowed ground of a church.
This pit had been dug to bury Lady Tabea’s bandits, all of whom had been prepared as Jania’s body had been lest they rise again. The additional protection, of course, was the hallowing that the cleric had performed. It was technically the only act necessary to ensure a revenant did not rise up, at least without the active malevolance of another party, and the gravediggers trusted it, but they still felt more secure in their own material work.
One more grave was dug, four feet deep and long enough to accommodate Jania’s headless body. As they labored, the rain soaked through the linen of Jania’s shroud, droplets gathering or even mixing with the dried blood where her neck once was. When the grave was ready, the two gravediggers pulled it from the cart, carrying the body over by the shoulders and the legs so that the chest was facing down, and lowered it into the grave with a wet splat.
The cleric performed the burial recitation and then, to stop the grave from becoming complete mudpit, he grabbed the third spade and helped with filling the grave.
For Jania’s body, wrapped in linen and buried with her chest facing deeper into the earth, the soil landed on her backside and slide down her body, until eventually the weight of it pressed against her. The stake was pushed further into her spine and her body was now tight in the grave. There she was to remain, grave marked only with an unlettered wooden sign, until the earth had consumed the flesh of her corpse.
The seasons passed, grass growing atop Jania’s grave. Wildflowers of blue would be seeded by the wind and spouted, and soon the wooden marker began to rot away itself as the wind and rain battered it.
Years later the gravediggers and cleric, now older, returned for the truly final disposition. By this point, all that remained of Jania or her fellow brigands were their bones. The earth had consumed their flesh, or the vast majority of it, and even their shrouds had begun to rot. Their graves were dug up so that remains might be gathered together on a donkey-drawn cart, and brought back to the gravediggers’ home. The graves were filled back in, for now, as the corpse pit was now free to be used for burying other such scum.
At the gravediggers’ home, what was done depended on the state of the body. Those still with flesh had their limbs dismembered so the last flesh could be boiled away in iron pots filled with water. Those who had decayed into just their bones, such as Jania’s headless skeleton, had the remaining scraps of linen removed and were dunked in a large through to be washed clean.
This done, the bones were gathered onto the cart and brought to the local church, Jania’s mixing together with the others. There, the cleric gave a sermon speaking to the need to treat even the condemned properly, lest they rise and take their justice in turn. The bones were added to the church’s ossuary, now no different than those of anyone else. In death, all subjects were equal regardless of how they had lived in life.
It was here that the bones of Jania’s body were reunited with her skull, in so far as they shared a resting place among myriad bones. The skull had been returned years ago, rotting faster on the stake, and so had also been interred sooner. Here Jania’s remains would, well, remain, anonymous in death.
Inspired partially by the Manor Lords game, working with a similar kind of high-medieval world. Just explicitly fantasy rather than mostly historical like the inspiration.
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This was not the first time that Jania had waited for the headsman, but there was some strange comfort in knowing that it would be the last time. She had not sobbed the way she had before, she had not begged for mercy. The only salvation she had prayed for was a fair judgment of her soul after death. A calm had enveloped her as she waited for the inevitable, as if she had already accepted her mortality.
Or perhaps it was the fact that this time, Jania had committed the crime she was to be beheaded for.
She had spent her final days in the dungeon of the castle, built into the stone foundation of the otherwise wooden fortification. Light was provided by a few small grates that faced the courtyard, the sun shining bright this morning. It was not particularly habitable, as the floor consisted of soil trampled into shape with hay thrown over it and the bed consisted of a few reasonably large benches with old hides thrown on top, but it also had not been meant to house prisoners for any prolonged period.
Having finished with tying her auburn hair into a single braid, Jania slid it to hang down her back where it dangled between and past her shoulder blades. She had cleaned herself as best she could, the guards having provided a bucket of water and rags for her to wipe herself with. As she had cleaned her robust body, the blemishes of her life were as clean as they would be, be it that from labor beneath the sun or the scar that ran across her left cheek.
Jania put a hand to the scar. The was an irony there had earned it in her home town’s militia fighting brigands. Now, she was to be executed as one such brigand, so far from her hometown.
At least unlike at her hometown, she had been allowed to wear more than a white underdress to her execution. A simple green tunic, the off-white undershirt beneath it, the brown hose for her legs and the worn black-tarred boots for her feet.
And she would not perish alone, for she shared this sentence with her mistress.
“Lady Tabea?” Jania asked as she watched her liege-lady staring out one of the grates.
The robber knight turned. Unlike Jania she was wearing a dress, dyed blue with a yellow pattern embroidered around the hems over a white underdress, recovered from their baggage after capture and allowed as a dignity for the condemned noblewoman. Tabea stood a foot taller than Jania, even in slippers rather than riding boots, her black hair tied up into a bun that would leave her neck clear for the coming strike.
“Jania,” Tabea answered with a slow nod. “You are prepared, then?”
“I am, mi’lady.”
Silence fell as Tabea turned back to the grate, looking towards the sky. Jania had always been wary of presuming to know what the highborn thought, for their station had concerns that Jania had never been able to grasp. Yet time spent serving Lady Tabea as a woman-at-arms had her see that the highborn shared many of the same worries and fears as their subjects, including that of fate.
“I am sorry that it came to this, Jania. Your loyalty deserves a better reward than an execution.”
“You earned it, mi’lady. You spared me a slave’s lot, and let me fight. If not for you, I would have slaved my life away wishing I had been beheaded instead.”
Tabea half-smiled. “Perhaps. I am glad that I was at least able to spare you that injustice, and you have more than repaid any debt from that. I attacked the caravan for my own ends, not for you.”
The caravan. How could she forget that night? The Builder’s Guild so confident that they would be able to use the slaves as unpaid labor to enrich themselves. Like Jania, the others in the cage with her had been bought from those condemned, lining the pockets of other rich burghers to pervert justice towards profit. To ‘pay off their debt’, as if there would be any honest accounting. Then their captors had been ambushed and killed to the last.
“Yet you freed us. I did not need to follow you for long to learn how uncommon that was.”
Tabea nodded. “Thank you, Jania. I hope that you find your rest after today.”
“Likewise, mi’lady.”
They fell silent again. Their executions were imminent, hence why they were both sharing the dungeon now. Lady Tabea had been allowed to prepare herself in more fitting quarters and with aid from the castle’s servants, but she still needed to be kept under lock and key lest she escape. A noble awaiting ransom would swear not to escape and be kept in a form of guest-arrest, but such an oath was no longer binding if they were to be executed.
The trial had been rather swift, particularly as their employer Baron Hildebrand had not declared the formal feud that he had claimed to be starting when he hired them. Thus it was brigandage, rather than an act of war. The local lord, Lady Kristiane, had petitioned the provincial court once she had carried out the trial and had received back permission to carry out Tabea’s sentence. Lady Tabea had not pushed for ransom, as she did not have the means to pay her worth and knew better than to insult her captor’s sense of justice.
Jania sat down on the bench she had been using as a bed, leaning against the wall. She was not sure exactly how much time she had left, and if she was honest the wait was the worst part. Knowing that it was soon. Last time, she had frantically been praying for deliverance. How naive had she been. This time, she felt she had already said her prayers.
There was no point in trying to exercise her body, for soon it would be buried. And escape was not an option: besides the guard right outside the locked door who would stop them, they would have to get to the courtyard and then somehow escape the walls of the small castle, probably being killed in the process. It would just be a lot of effort for how she was going to die anyways.
“If I may, my lady,” Jania asked as Tabea had sat down on the bench opposite, “how are you feeling?”
“Tired,” Tabea admitted. “Wishing I had been killed in that skirmish instead of captured. Beheading is an honorable way to be executed, but I still wish I had fallen in battle as a noble should.”
“Would it really matter?” Jania asked. “Death is death.”
“Perhaps, but how one dies is important.” Tabea closed her eyes. “I should not complain. Lady Kristiane and her retainers have comported themselves honorably and treated me well. Have they shown you the same?”
“As courteous as could be expected, given what we did.” She looked towards the door. The guard outside shuffled, his maille shirt rattling as he did so.
“You seem surprised.”
“We burned down two farmsteads and were going to do more, and we killed at least a half-dozen people,” Jania pointed out. “Never mind the caravans we attacked. Sure, those were guild caravans, but they still trade in the area. I expected to be tortured.”
“Lady Kristiane is confident in her authority,” Tabea noted with a smile that surprised Jania. “And a good woman. She merely needs to carry out justice, and her people will be satisfied. She does not need a ghastly display to prove her power.”
Jania frowned as she considered it. How could a less drawn out spectacle be a sign of authority and confidence?
Then again, maybe it was for the best she not dwell on it. A lord who felt a need for spectacle would make her death painful, be it breaking her on the wheel or torturing her before death. If not outright torturing her to death. A beheading, even if a less honorable one by the axe instead of the sword, was quick and clean by comparison.
Still, did that mean the bailiff back home was confident when he had sentenced her to death by beheading, or was he trying to appease another group while her death appeased that merchant?
“What would you make of how I was to be executed, before the Builder’s Guild’s false mercy?” Jania asked as her curiosity was now piqued.
Tabea put a hand to her chin. “Remind me: you were condemned for murdering a visiting merchant’s daughter, and the merchant made a fuss over it?”
“Yes, though it was self-defense.” And it had been: that merchant’s daughter had drunkenly attacked her after mistaking her for a servant and not taking kindly to being corrected. Jania, to her embarrassment, had not held her own in that brawl and found herself being choked to death. That was when she had drawn her dagger and stabbed the merchant’s daughter.
“That’s right, the guard had not seen the full context.” Lady Tabea nodded a she remembered. “How many of your fellow townsmen believed your story, though?”
“It seemed like many did,” Jania admitted. “There was a lot of relief in the crowd when I was to be ‘spared’.” Or maybe it was just her own distorting her memory?
“Then perhaps the axe was a balancing act. The merchant demanded your death and the guard only saw the dead daughter, not that she had tried to strangle you. However, executing one’s own to appease an outsider always has issues, especially if there is doubt to the guilt of the condemned. A quick execution can say it upheld the law, or what the law demanded from what it knew, without undue cruelty. It would make the matter easier to forget, too.”
“Huh,” Jania admitted as she was able to see how that would work. “So, not making a spectacle can be strong or weak, depending on why it’s being done?”
“You have it, Jania.”
“Too bad I will not get to use this,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. Where the axe would soon cut. “But maybe it is good to understand the world before I leave it.”
“Perhaps this is how you would like to pass our final hours?” Tabea offered as something seemed to hit her.
“I would be honored, mi’l-” she caught herself, clearing her throat. “My lady.”
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It had been enlightening, getting an educating view into a world she had only heard of or been told was above her. Alas, her education in it would be all too short as the time of execution came.
The guards had come prepared, four men-at-arms to escort them as well as the local priest who offered to hear any final confessions, if there was something they had not been able to unburden prior. Neither of them had anything to confess, for they had already done so when they saw him last.
One guard, wearing a jack with green cloth over the plates, produced a pair of iron manacles and approached Lady Tabea, briefly bowing his head. “Mi’lady, please place your hands forward.”
Lady Tabea nodded, presenting her hands with her wrists facing each other. The guard placed the manacles around her and locked them. Tabea gave them a slight pull, seeing just how far apart the five links of iron chain could go and making sure she could put her hands together. Then she nodded, satisfied with her restraint. The cleric passed her a small pouch of coins.
Meanwhile, another approached Jania with a length of rope. “Turn around and put your hands behind you,” the woman-at-arms ordered. She wore a green waffenrock over her maille, cut just below her waist and a kettle helmet with a full maille coif. Not unlike Jania herself had worn once, though she had worn a brigandine over gambeson instead of maille.
“Is that my old helmet?” Jania asked as she obediently turned and put her hands behind her.
“No, it’s still in the armory,” the woman answered as she tied Jania’s hands together. “You’d rather die in armor, like in those manuscripts?”
“Why not?” Jania asked as she felt her chest pushed forward by her arms being stuck behind her. “I fought for my liege lady, just as you serve yours.”
The guard scoffed as she finished tying the ropes together. Jania also lightly tested her bonds and found they were secure. This was it then. It was time to die, and the noblewoman who had sentenced them would not relent. Jania turned back around to face the door.
Lady Tabea was led out first, holding her head high as two of the men-at-arms and the priest led them out of the dungeon. Jania was behind, with the other two guards behind her. The woman who had bound Jania’s hands kept a hand on her right shoulder, just in case she had any ideas. Jania kept her head high as well, her auburn braid hanging between her arms as she walked.
They were led out of the dungeon, up stone stairs that took them into the courtyard of the wooden castle. By this point the sunlight had gone behind the clouds, not thick but gray with rain to come. Jania still winced as she was led into the courtyard, eyes stinging from the change in light.
As her eyes cleared, Jania could take another look at the castle’s courtyard. The wooden walls that ringed consisted of two layers: logs twice as tall as a man as the outside, and behind it platforms for guards to patrol on and shoot from. Within this protection were various small structures around the manor itself: storage, residence for servants and soldiers, a small stable for their horses, and the platform where they would die.
The wooden platform, elevated about a foot or so, was along the dirt road leading into the castle, and already a crowd had gathered from the nearby village and smallholdings. They had come to witness their liege lady dispense justice, and while they had been talking among themselves they had gone quiet when they noticed who was being brought out. A little encouragement from a few guards in the crowd also helped.
They were led up the step at the back of the platform, facing the keep itself and where they had been led from. The center of the platform had been covered in straw, while a little to the left (still on straw) was an executioner’s block with a cutout on both sides. It had been cleaned, even if there was still the faint stain of past victim’s blood. A basket sat on the side facing the crowd, and the single-bladed axe that would sever her head was resting against it.
A rough coffin also lay on the platform, towards the back. Only one coffin, though.
The executioner stood stoically, square-bladed sword in hand as he watched impassively. He had dressed in a jupon, the same kind of jacket worn by some men-at-arms to protect their armor from the elements. His was quartered between sections of muted red and green. He wore no mask, for his role was well known in his community, his full brown beard and hair trimmed close to his body. His hands were protected by leather gloves.
Next to him was a herald, a portly man dressed in a surcoat bearing his liege-lady’s colors and sigil, scroll in hand and with a rather well-decorated chaperon of both colors. Spectacles adorned his face, hanging just low enough on his nose to seem to be specifically for reading.
The lady herself stood above, on a balcony out of the side of the keep where she might witness and affirm the execution as was custom. Turning, Jania could just make out Kristiane’s presence and see her clothing. A conservative blue dress with a white cloth laid over the top and back of her head, kept in place by a brass circlet.
Jania was given a nudge by her escort. “Eyes forward,” the woman-at-arms grumbled.
The condemned women were taken just behind the middle of the platform. Jania was on the left, behind the block by a few feet, while Tabea was to the right so she could easily walk to the pile of straw. The guard that had chained Tabea stood to her left, while the woman-at-arms that had bound Jania was still behind her and kept a hand on her shoulder.
The herald stepped forward to the front of the platform, unfurling the scroll. The crowd quieted to hear the sentence they longed for.
“Good people!” the herald began with a booming voice, “By the authority of your liege lady and the provincial court of our good King Karl the Second: today this robber knight, Lady Tabea von Erlhardt, and her retainer, Jania, are to be put to death. The crimes in which they are condemned are as follows…”
He recited the list, a fairly short one of brigandage, arson for the homesteads they had burned down, and the deaths they had caused. He omitted the men-at-arms from Lady Kristiane’s garrison, which Jania now suspected was a way to emphasize the pain inflicted upon her subjects.
“… As such,” her herald concluded, “Lady Tabea von Erlhardt is to be beheaded by the sword. Her retainer shall be beheaded by the axe. Such will be the fate of all brigands, be they robber baron or common outlaw, in the domain of Lady Kristiane von Nusslohe!”
The crowd was excited. The justice they had wished to see carried out, and the spectacle of their vengeance, was upon them. They murmured among themselves, all while Jania wondered what it was about. She remembered how she had watched the execution of brigands herself, eager to see the strength of her town’s law and the demise of the wretches who would and had hurt her friends and townsfolk.
So, this was how it felt like to be said wretches.
The executioner walked up to Lady Tabea, bowing his head as he spoke quietly. “Please forgive the work I must do, my lady.”
“There is nothing to forgive, executioner,” Tabea answered as she pressed the pouch into his hand. “Ensure that our deaths are carried out properly.”
The executioner took it and nodded. “I shall strive to do so, my lady.” He took a step back and nodded to the herald, who stepped away and let the cleric step forward to begin his recitation.
Some of the crowd bowed their heads to follow with it, while others tried to jeer only to be quieted by those near them. Or in one case, a man loudly declared they did not deserve their rites only to be silenced as a guard delivered a swift strike to his leg with the butt end of her spear.
For her part, Jania bowed her head, quietly reciting the words as the cleric spoke. She was to outlive her liege lady, but they would share the same last rites.
As they finished, the cleric turned. “Lady Tabea, do you have any words to those whom you have wronged?”
Tabea took a half step forward, raising her voice. “I do not contest the judgment upon me, for I understand the wrongs I have done. I only wish you to understand it was an act of contract, not malice. We were hired to be the first strike of a feud, and when called to declare his feud Baron Hildebrand chose to feign ignorance!”
The crowd jeered, not believing her lady’s sincerity. ‘Murderess!’ they cried. ‘Bandit scum!’ ‘Wretch!’
Jania’s body tensed as Tabea turned, looking towards the lady of the manor. Jania was able to half turn to watch the exchange, the guard behind her keeping a firm grip but permitting it.
“Do what honor requires, Lady Kristiane,” Tabea added, “I accept your lawful judgment.”
Lady Kristiane held up a hand to quieten the crowd, then responded to the condemned noblewoman’s words. “I thank you for your understanding, Lady Tabea. Today you will answer for your deeds, and in death you shall find your forgiveness.”
It was ritual posturing, but Jania understood it now. Establishing a lack of malice, and keeping the baron’s hand in it present in the minds of the people. No doubt in the future, when the feud was properly declared, their actions would be used to rally Kristiane’s people in the call to arms. Perhaps they had even discussed it when Tabea had been taken to a guest room to prepare herself for the execution.
One man in the crowd called for them to get on with it, a sentiment Jania found herself agreeing with.
Evidently, so did Lady Kristiane as she gave the order. “Executioner, carry out the sentence!”
Jania turned back towards the front, and Tabea turned towards her. She nodded to Jania, and Jania responded in kind. This was farewell.
With that mutual understanding, Tabea strode forward towards the pile of straw. One of the guards followed, but did not need to direct her. At that point, the executioner had taken up a position and bid her to kneel. Tabea did so, settling down on both of her knees and lowering her head.
She was leaning forward to do it, hands clasped close to her chest in prayer so they would be out of the way, while trying to keep her shoulders low. She was exposing as much of her neck as she could, the black bun of her hair pointing to the heavens while her face was directly towards the earth. At this point, Jania could not see her face or her expression. She could only watch as the executioner whispered a request for last words.
The crowd held its breath, as did Jania as she could not look away, nor could she hear her liege lady’s last testament.
The executioner lifted his sword, holding it just above Tabea’s neck but not making contact with the exposed nape. Then he raised the untipped blade, eyeing the trajectory that it would travel with a practiced keenness. He rose it above his head, and then swung down.
The blade cut through Tabea’s neck without resistance. Her body – both Jania’s own and that of her liege lady – tensed as the cold steel severed the head from the body. Tabea’s head fell down directly, obstructed from Jania’s sight until it rolled slightly to the left. Jania could see Tabea’s face, tensed with her eyes pressed shut. There was a faint twitch, as if she had tried to blink but had stopped herself from doing so. Blood spurted from the severed neck, staining the knees of Tabea’s blue dress.
Her body had tilted forward, but fortunately had also fell down. Tabea’s body pressed down against her legs, and came to rest there with a slight tilt towards the executioner. Blood continued to squirt out, both from her severed head which now stained the yellow pattern around her body’s shoulders and pooled in the straw before her. At least her face had been spared further stains.
The executioner stepped back, assessing his work as the peasants in the crowd applauded a job well done. He returned to his stoic stance from before, planting the untipped sword against the straw as if he was resting a warsword.
Jania was still staring, watching as Tabea’s face finally began to relax, eyes ever so slightly opening. She was dead, but she had died at peace. A small dribble of blood was coming from her mouth, but otherwise she had been cleanly beheaded.
“Rest in peace, mi’lady,” Jania prayed, barely audible even to the guard behind her.
The cleric gave an instruction, and two people stepped out of the crowd and were allowed past by the guards. One was a man wearing a beige shirt with a dull blue hood left down. The other was a woman in a brown dress with a white apron, and wore a white wimple tied to her head with a red band. Both climbed onto the platform, and Jania watched as they walked towards the coffin and carried it to where Tabea’s freshly dead corpse lady.
The man pulled out two sheets of rough brown linen from the coffin, and the woman pulled out a long roll of hemp. These were set to the side, save for one sheet of linen which was unfolded and laid over the rough wooden coffin, settling inside.
The woman grabbed Tabea’s headless body by the feet, while the man held her shoulders, pulling Tabea’s body straight and laying the still-bleeding corpse on its back. The guard that had escorted Tabea stepped forward, undoing the manacles around her wrists and taking them, leaving Tabea’s hands to limply fall to the side.
That done, the two waited a few moments for the worst of the blood to spill, then picked up her body as they had before. The body was set into the coffin, where it pressed against the linen. Some more blood came out as the limp body was shaken by the movement, but most of it had been spilled. The woman arranged Tabea’s arms and legs in the coffin, while the man picked up her head and set it down in the coffin roughly where it would have been if it was still attached.
Their job done, they stepped away to the side of the platform behind the executioner. They had left unused a sheet of linen and the roll of hemp.
That would be for Jania. And as she realized that, she felt her legs began to shake. She was about to die.
The executioner handed the man his sword, who set it down against a simple rack on the platform, and walked towards Jania.
“It is time,” he said courteously. “Hold your head high, and relax. You will join your liege lady soon enough.”
“Will,” Jania swallowed. When had her throat gone dry? “Will it be quick? I… I have nothing to pay you.”
“I do not need payment to do good job,” the executioner answered, then nodded to the guard behind her. “Bring her to the block.”
“Yes, Heinz.” The guard waited a moment as the executioner walked towards the block, then she gave Jania a nudge forward. Jania almost stumbled, having stood still as long as she had, but she walked forward. It was like her body had decided the time to die had come and was eager to get it over with, even as her heart thumped louder and louder.
The crowd jeered, some demanding a bigger show from the peasant wench, such as breaking her. Others taunted about how it was deserved.
It is deserved, Jania told herself. Endure it, accept her fate. Show her true character in her last moments. She did not hold her head high as she stared at the block, but she stayed upright, her chest pushed forward by her hands tied behind her back.
Jania stood at the headsman’s block now. The executioner had pulled the axe from the block and gave it a final once-over.
It was not a bad death, all things considered. She had not been worked to the grave like she could have been, if the Builder’s Guild had their way. She had found honorable service as a woman-at-arms. Yes, her liege lady was a robber baroness, but it was sworn service all the same.
“Do you wish word to be sent to your hometown?” the executioner asked quietly.
“No,” Jania answered. They did not need to know she had lived only to die here.
“As you wish,” the executioner nodded. “Say your last words, and kneel.”
Last words. What were to be her last words. How had she forgotten to think of something? What should she say? Affirm her loyalty to her slain liege lady? Beg for forgiveness and a quick death? A prayer for fair judgment in the afterlife?
“Just do it,” she finally said, not realizing what she had done until a hand pushed her to her knees. They hurt from the impact against the wooden platform, even with the straw, and the same hand pressed her forward. Her neck lay against the block, and the weight of her head pressed her throat against the ridge.
It felt like she had been jabbed in the throat and it hurt to breathe, but did she need to anymore? The hand that had been on her shoulder lifted, and she felt someone grabbing her braid. To her left she could see her auburn hair fall forward, the tip of her braid hanging in the basket, then she felt a hand pressing against her back, keeping her in position.
The executioner hefted his axe.
Jania was staring into the basket now. This was it. She was about to die. She tensed as she felt the cold steel press against the nape of her neck.
Steady, she reminded herself, and inhaled. As she did, she could no longer hear the crowd. It no longer mattered to her. The pressure on her throat remained, but it would be over soon. Her earlier shakes were gone, replaced by an unseasonable chill.
It was not such a bad wa-
Any further thoughts were cut off as she felt something sharp cut into her neck, before her world became a blur of wooden brown and red. She felt remarkably light as she fell, but had no time to be aware of the drop. Her face smacked into the wicker basket, tilting side to side as her braid had pulled her to the left and even cushioned the impact slightly.
Her head came to a stop lying on her left cheek, her scar pressing into the wicker. Her eyes were open as she looked to her right, barely making out a red-stained blade being pulled from a block before she was splattered with red. She could taste copper as blood got into her half open mouth, and despite the chill in the rest of her head the bottom of her neck felt warm.
She could vaguely hear cheering, but could not process any words. She felt some vague sense of motion behind her head, something scrabbling back there. She felt a tug. She fell forward, facing down in the basket. She was pulled away from it.
Suddenly she was pulled to a stand. No, no standing, but she was seeing bright color before her, something holding her braid over her head.
She blinked once, trying to understand, but understanding eluded her. She should have been able to understand. She could not.
She was tired. So tired.
Unable to hear.
Her visioned blackened.
Jania knew no more.
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Though this was the end of Jania’s life, it was not the end of her mortal fate.
The executioner had severed her head in a single stroke, even with the resistance from her tensing. Jania’s head had landed in the basket, pulled towards the left by the extra weight of her braid before rolling in it. The same weight had seen that the head ended its roll on her left cheek.
The execution of the last of the brigands that had done such great harm to them brought cheers to the crowd, particularly as they did not need fear unwittingly offending their betters now. They had savored the lead up and the catharsis as the axe fell.
When the executioner pulled his axe away, blood from Jania’s severed neck sprayed into the basket, splattering her face and joining that which had been pooling into the wicker from her severed head. Her auburn hair was staining with her blood, but most of her headless body’s blood would pool against the cut in the block. Without her head to pull it forward, her body had also slumped as Tabea’s had, the guard’s hand guiding the stump into the block’s cutout.
The guard then let go, stepping around the body and reaching into the basket. Leather gloves protected her hands from the blood within and she grabbed Jania’s braid, pulling her head into the air.
“Behold good people!” she declared to the cheers of the crowd, “the fate of those that prey upon you! You stand witness to the justice delivered to you, the justice of our lady, Kristiana von Nussolhe!”
Jania’s last spark of consciousness had faded as her head was held aloft, and she had been unable to comprehend the declaration.
The shock of the axe’s fall had started to pass from her head at this point. Her mouth hung half-open, slowly opening more as the weight of her jaw pulled it towards the earth with no soul there to bid it to stay closed. Her eyes relaxed, eyelids heavy but unable to stay shut, and the tip of her tongue had just stuck out to her teeth. Blood glistened, dripping from her severed neck and also slowly running down her face.
Of course, a head was a heavy thing to hold aloft, even for a woman used to wielding a rather large mace in combat. The guard let the head lower above the basket as it continued to drip blood, then dropped it. Jania’s head landed with a wet squelch and rocked inside the wicker basket, particularly as the braid landed behind her head and pulled it so that it faced to the right side. All while her head was stained further in the pooling blood.
By this point, Jania’s headless body had slumped to the left, spasms passing through and causing it to uncurl itself from its kneeling, and the blood her shoulders had kept in the block spilled off onto the straw. The executioner took his axe to the other side of the platform, setting to work cleaning both of his blades. Meanwhile, the gravediggers came to deal with the second body.
The cleric looked over the display with a sigh. Lady Tabea at least would receive burial in church grounds, once her body had been cleaned and sent to her kin. Jania’s fate would be that of her already slain accomplices, and while both would eventually be interred the head and body would take entirely different journeys.
The start would be shared, in a sense. The brother gravedigger grabbed the as-of-yet unused linen shroud, laying it out flat next to Jania’s corpse as its last spasms faded and the body began to relax. The sister gravedigger began to deal with the body, laying it on its side, and started to untie the rope around her wrists. The woman-at-arms that had escorted Jania to her execution watched, waiting for the blood to dry more before she could take the head to its fate.
As the ropes came loose, Jania’s arms slumped to the ground behind her. A faint rumble ripped through the air, and those present winced as they realized that Jania’s sphincters had begun to relax. The sister gravedigger looked over the corpse and sighed as she saw a dark stain forming at Jania’s crotch.
“So much for dignity in death,” the gravedigger lamented.
“You’re going to keep her down anyways,” the woman-at-arms offered, leading to mirthless chuckles as Jania’s headless body was shuffled onto the linen shroud, chest towards the ground.
They wrapped the linen around the body, and tied it with the hemp rope around her ankles, knees, waist, and shoulders. Tight enough to stay together, but not so tight it would be tough to remove later. This was just for transport, not for the burial.
It was at this stage of death’s journey that the body and head went their separate ways.
Perhaps in the afterlife, Jania’s soul would ponder which journey to experience first, if it could not experience both together.
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The journey of Jania’s head would begin with the blood having dried enough.
The woman-at-arms that had bound and escorted her to the execution had waited until the sister gravedigger had carried the body away, during which time the brother gravedigger and the priest had put a cover on Lady Tabea’s coffin and moved it onto a handcart. They would take it to the church to be given treatment befit a noblewoman, but Jania was owed no such treatment.
When the woman-at-arms was satisfied that the blood was sufficiently dry, she reached back into the basket. The blood was still sticky and glistened, particularly that which had ended up soaked against the scar on Jania’s left cheek. At least now it would not splatter everywhere as she carried the head by the braid again, taking it out past the castle’s gatehouse.
The subjects living outside did not have a wall as a formally chartered town might, but custom remained the same for displaying justice for all to witness.
Outside the wooden walls were a half dozen or so heads adorning wooden stakes. They belonged to those brigands whose heads had still been intact after the skirmish, rather than having been caved in by a war hammer or spear to the face. One stake had been left bare, reserved for the one brigand (other than Lady Tabea herself) who had been taken alive in the fight.
The woman-at-arms shifted Jania’s head to hold it with both hands, cupping the brigand’s cheeks from the front. Then she lifted the head, making sure the braid was clear, then pressed it onto the stake up through the hole that had been Jania’s throat.
The head slid on with a wet squelch, particularly as the spike penetrated through flesh towards the spine and was stuck where it met the skull. Taking a step back, the woman-at-arms nodded to herself as she looked at the staked head, which was already losing color as it pivoted slightly forward.
Maybe she should take a look at this brigand’s kettle helmet. It was a nice one, after all, and it would be easy enough to make the trade with the armorer. She briefly considered if maybe she should clean the head a little, but decided against it. Let some penitent pilgrim show mercy to the dead, or if the cleric felt offended he could order it.
For now, she needed to wash up, and she could definitely justify a trip to the bath houses to do it. Her clothes would need thorough laundering, as her green waffenrock had red bloodstains on it, to say nothing of her gloves and sleeves. She could clean the worst off with a quick visit to a water through, but it would need a thorough cleaning once her watch that day was done. Whistling to herself, the woman-at-arms walked back to the manor to continue her duties.
Jania’s head remained on the spike. Her jaw now hung open and her tongue had pressed forward to meet her lower lips. Her eyelids were half open, while her eyes had rolled upwards so her irises were no longer visible, and soon clouded over. Her auburn hair hung behind her, the braid being picked up by the wind and swaying with it as the sky darkened as gray clouds rolled in. By afternoon, it began to rain, soaking her lifeless head.
The rain would wash away some of the blood, but as the night came and went there was still red stained into Jania’s head and hair. There her head remained, sometimes commented on by those who had witnessed the execution. A traveler occasionally passed only to wince at the reminder of certain yet harsh justice. A condemned criminal would falter at the sight, understanding keenly the fate that awaited them as they saw the heads. Others used to the sight paid it no mind. Jania’s head was just one more brigand’s among several.
Exposed to the wind and rain of the elements, and for the hunger of scavengers, Jania’s head would rot away. Crows pecked at her eyes and soon consumed them, then made their way gorging holes through her cheeks and the rest of her head. Flies and maggots would attempt to nest in there, but would find themselves and their eggs victims of other birds. Jania’s auburn hair lost its luster, and in the coming weeks her skull began to become visible through her rotted flesh.
It was at this point that the cleric returned with the gravediggers, overseeing the removal of Jania’s head and those of the other brigands whose heads had decayed too far. They were pulled from the stakes and collected into a large linen basket. Jania’s head was the fourth removed, landing in with a dry thud as her head hit face first and the stringy remains of her hair followed. The hair, dried as it was now, acted as a cushion for the next head removed and dropped into the basket.
The heads were brought to the gravediggers’ home, far from the villages and the castle, where the gravediggers began the process of excarnation. Within the wooden wall of the homestead was an outdoor work area with a long firepit, over which an iron rod held three iron pots. The brother gravedigger set to work stoking the fire, while the sister gravedigger removed the heads from the basket and set them to look towards the next step, then drew water from the nearby well. Jania’s rotted head lay on her right cheek, and was not picked among the first batch.
It was after the first skulls had been cleaned that Jania’s was picked up again by the brother gravedigger, who carried her with gloved hands around her jaw and placed it into an empty pot. More water was poured into it from a fresh bucket, then a lid was set over it. Over several hours the water was brought to and kept at a boil. The flesh and hair that remained separated from the skull.
When the gravediggers returned and pulled Jania’s skull and top end of her spine from the pot, the remaining flesh was gone save for some scraps that had stuck to the skull during removal. This was washed away, and then the skull was placed in a second sack with those that had already been cleaned.
When all the skulls and spine ends had been stripped of flesh, the gravediggers brought them to the local church where the cleric received the remains. They had all been subject to justice, but now that it was done it was time to put them to rest. The priest held a small service, attended by a few passing pilgrims wishing to show good intentions by offering prayers for the deceased, and then placed the skulls in the ossuary behind the church.
It was little more than a massive clay box, but all subjects were equal in death, and the bones of the guilty and innocent alike mingled there for their final disposition. It was here that Jania’s skull remained, anonymous among the common dead. In the years to come, the rest of her bones would come to join her skull.
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The journey of Jania’s body from her place of execution did not need to wait for the blood to dry, as the linen was thick enough to absorb what remained.
The linen shroud was tied with hemp rope, and the sister gravedigger rolled it over. Jania’s chest was now facing the sky, and the gravedigger knelt to pull the corpse over her shoulder. Jania’s headless body was held so that her legs were to the gravedigger’s front, and her torso hung behind her, balanced at the hips. The limp body sagged and bounced in the shroud as the gravedigger carried it off. Out the gatehouse, past the severed heads of Jania’s deceased comrades, whom her own head would soon join.
The sister gravedigger huffed. She had hoped to be the one tending to Lady Tabea’s body, but apparently the sex that she desired was more important than the sex she actually was when it came to propriety. Thus, her brother in faith and service would prepare the noblewoman’s body for transport to her kin as he would have no desire, while she had to haul this woman’s corpse home.
“Not to worry,” she muttered to the headless body, “the last one who called me a corpse-fucker was picking her teeth off of the tavern green.”
The only response was an increasingly wet shoulder as Jania’s bladder finished emptying, and the squelch of her sphincter’s releases.
She really had rolled a bust for this execution, hadn’t she?
Like other unclean laborers such as the executioner or the gong farmers that took away the excrement, the gravediggers had to reside outside of the confines of both the manorial castle and the villages it protected. Unlike the executioner, at least, they were directly under the priest’s protection and had been inducted as lay-servants of the faith. Thus, ‘brother and sister’ gravedigger despite no blood relation.
Jania’s headless body continued to shift in its shroud as she was carried past the treeline and up the hill. The gravediggers’ house had a wooden wall around it, obstructing vision to what went on within. The dogs barked, but calmed down once they saw their mistress had returned home and gave her space.
In a shed within the homestead, Jania’s body was laid out on a wooden table and the sister gravedigger caught her breath. “Heavy one, aren’t you?” the sister gravedigger lamented as she rolled her shoulder, sighing as she laid a hand on it. “How much did you drink before your execution, anyways?”
Silence was her answer, but it was to be expected. The sister gravedigger stepped out to get what she needed, leaving Jania’s body within its linen shroud on the table. Her body had been set down on her back, and within her hands lay by her waist. She had defecated and urinated herself, much of it staining her hose and sliding down her legs during the journey.
Beneath the shroud and her stained clothes (blood and otherwise), Jania’s body had paled and blood had begun to pool in her body by her legs and shoulders. Some had pushed past what had dried in her neck, but most of it remained inside her at least. Now that she was lying down, it began to settle again, discoloring the parts of her body that were resting against the table.
Of course, the headless body only had the sense of touch to go by, had it a soul there to experience it. It had only known the pressure of what it was resting against and what had slid or leaked out of it as it relaxed. It had no way of hearing or seeing the return of the sister gravedigger, carrying a bucket, rags, and a wooden stake.
Jania’s body could only feel as the ropes were undone and the linen was unwrapped, pulled out from beneath her. It could only feel as her right hand was raised to see just how stiff she was (starting to stiffen but still moving smoothly). It could not hear the gravedigger’s apology for what needed to be done, but could feel the clothes being tugged off. It could feel the limp fall of the arms as they were grabbed then let go as necessary. It could feel the rags wiping away the posthumous soiling, and cleaning the body with rags soaked in water.
The sister gravedigger at least could appreciate the care the brigand had taken for her body in life. She always admired the fitness of a robust woman-at-arms. Too bad that she was a corpse now. Still, the gravedigger did note the dead woman’s breasts sagging into her body as the weight of the world pulled down, or a little bounces when she moved the body around such as flipping Jania’s corpse to clean the backside, or even how there was no reaction as she washed the dead woman’s crotch. The rain had begun by now, much to the gravedigger’s amusement as she wondered if she could have just taken her outside to be washed by nature.
Still, the job was done soon enough, and the sister gravedigger steeled herself for what was necessary. Those subjects who betrayed the world’s order and were justly punished for it were liable to have unfinished business, or to desire revenge. While one revenant could be handled by the guards or better yet the priest, or if desperate a family’s determined defense of their homestead, the last thing any community needed was for a group of them to rise at once.
Thus, the gravedigger rolled Jania’s body onto its back again and laid her out, exposing her. The sister gravedigger grabbed a wooden hand mallet with her right hand and the wooden stake with her left, positioning the tip of the stake between Jania’s breasts and over her dead heart.
With practiced aim, the gravedigger hammered the back end of the stake, driving it into Jania’s heart, then removed her left hand to strike again, firmly penetrating the stake through Jania’s heart and into her spine. There it would remain.
It was the main necessary step, but at least the others could be done once the corpse was decently clothed again. Jania’s clothes were still soiled, especially the shoulders of her tunic which were caked in blood, but had gone back on easily enough. Then the sister gravedigger cut shorter lengths of hemp for the next steps.
Jania’s hands were crossed over her stomach, which was starting to faintly bloat by now, and were tied together at the wrists. Then her legs were crossed over so her left foot was on the right side, and another hemp rope was tied around her ankles to hold them together. That done, the body was once more wrapped up in the linen shroud and tied together. At the ankles, at the knees, at the waist, around her stomach, just below her shoulders, and one length down the whole body. This time, it was tied tightly, not to be undone for years to come.
By the time the sister gravedigger was finished, her not-by-blood-brother gravedigger and the cleric had come, and thankfully with the handcart. Once they had grabbed their cloaks and spades, Jania’s prepared corpse was placed on the cart, and then they took her deeper into the woods.
Though eventually the bones would go into an ossuary, while the crime was still fresh it was not right to bury those who had been wronged with those who had done the vile deed. For the latter, corpse pits would be dug away from the dwellings of honest folk, where the foul dead might rot away instead of being returned to the earth in the hallowed ground of a church.
This pit had been dug to bury Lady Tabea’s bandits, all of whom had been prepared as Jania’s body had been lest they rise again. The additional protection, of course, was the hallowing that the cleric had performed. It was technically the only act necessary to ensure a revenant did not rise up, at least without the active malevolance of another party, and the gravediggers trusted it, but they still felt more secure in their own material work.
One more grave was dug, four feet deep and long enough to accommodate Jania’s headless body. As they labored, the rain soaked through the linen of Jania’s shroud, droplets gathering or even mixing with the dried blood where her neck once was. When the grave was ready, the two gravediggers pulled it from the cart, carrying the body over by the shoulders and the legs so that the chest was facing down, and lowered it into the grave with a wet splat.
The cleric performed the burial recitation and then, to stop the grave from becoming complete mudpit, he grabbed the third spade and helped with filling the grave.
For Jania’s body, wrapped in linen and buried with her chest facing deeper into the earth, the soil landed on her backside and slide down her body, until eventually the weight of it pressed against her. The stake was pushed further into her spine and her body was now tight in the grave. There she was to remain, grave marked only with an unlettered wooden sign, until the earth had consumed the flesh of her corpse.
The seasons passed, grass growing atop Jania’s grave. Wildflowers of blue would be seeded by the wind and spouted, and soon the wooden marker began to rot away itself as the wind and rain battered it.
Years later the gravediggers and cleric, now older, returned for the truly final disposition. By this point, all that remained of Jania or her fellow brigands were their bones. The earth had consumed their flesh, or the vast majority of it, and even their shrouds had begun to rot. Their graves were dug up so that remains might be gathered together on a donkey-drawn cart, and brought back to the gravediggers’ home. The graves were filled back in, for now, as the corpse pit was now free to be used for burying other such scum.
At the gravediggers’ home, what was done depended on the state of the body. Those still with flesh had their limbs dismembered so the last flesh could be boiled away in iron pots filled with water. Those who had decayed into just their bones, such as Jania’s headless skeleton, had the remaining scraps of linen removed and were dunked in a large through to be washed clean.
This done, the bones were gathered onto the cart and brought to the local church, Jania’s mixing together with the others. There, the cleric gave a sermon speaking to the need to treat even the condemned properly, lest they rise and take their justice in turn. The bones were added to the church’s ossuary, now no different than those of anyone else. In death, all subjects were equal regardless of how they had lived in life.
It was here that the bones of Jania’s body were reunited with her skull, in so far as they shared a resting place among myriad bones. The skull had been returned years ago, rotting faster on the stake, and so had also been interred sooner. Here Jania’s remains would, well, remain, anonymous in death.
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