Catarina and The Prince | Tales From The Court Of Ravaeryn #1

45 | ranunculus

1712, Tower of The Damned, Kestramore City

"Do not touch me! I am the mother of the future queen!" Dinah Finley shouted as she attempted to break free from the hold of the prison guards but to no avail. "When my daughter becomes queen, all of you will lose your heads!"

The guards let out a series of chuckles. "The only one losing her head here is you!"

Marguerite quietly watched the entire fiasco unfold, her teeth anxiously biting into her lower lip. Her fingers felt awfully cold, and her stomach slowly churned and rumbled. How could she not? As soon as Dinah Finley lost her head, it would be her turn next.

The sun rose up in the sky as it always did, and it will continue doing so for the rest of eternity. But for Marguerite, this was the last time she would bathe in the sunlight, the last time she would ever witness the sunrise. There she stood, barefoot on top of the wooden scaffold, her lustrous golden locks tucked underneath a plain white bonnet.

"She looks like a monster!" a little girl cried out as she tugged onto her mother's skirts. "Mama, I'm scared!"

All that could be seen of Marguerite was her horribly torn and bleeding face, and while she was once considered a classic, exemplary beauty, now none of that remained. Marguerite's fingers subconsciously crept to her face, expecting to feel her soft, supple skin, but instead, her fingers brushed against wounds and scars, scabbing and bleeding.

"Any last words?" she heard the executioner say to Dinah Finley. Marguerite finally mustered the courage to look, and there she saw the silhouette of the man who would soon take her life. He was tall and cloaked in black, and a large metal axe was nestled in between his hands. A piece of burgundy cloth covered the lower half of his face, and only his pitch-black eyes could be seen.

"You cannot kill me!" Dinah screeched. "I am innocent! I have done nothing wrong!"

As the old woman begged and pleaded for her life, Marguerite noticed something leaking from between the wooden planks where Dinah stood. The poor woman had wet herself. Marguerite instinctively covered her nose and shied away as any noble lady would, but a single sentence from the executioner would immediately make her turn her head around.

"Hold her down," he said, and the prison guards obediently grabbed the old woman's pudgy arms and forced her to lay her head upon the chopping block. Dinah screamed at the top of her lungs, she kicked and spat, but ultimately, she was no match for them.

Dinah screamed one final time, and the sound of the axe coming down on her neck followed soon after. Then, there was silence. The old woman's head had tumbled down the scaffold and onto the dirt, so one of the prison guards hastily ran down the steps and retrieved the head, tossing it into a woven basket with all the other heads.

"Marguerite le Prince," the executioner called out. It was now her turn. For a moment, she felt as if time had stopped, as if it were frozen. The cold morning wind felt vivid, foreign even, and the early sunlight that entered her eyes did not feel real. She made her way to the executioner, her heart beating erratically in her ears, drowning out the jeers and taunts.

As she stood at the very centre of the scaffold, the chopping block just a few feet in front of her, Marguerite began to wonder-- how did I get here? What if my life had unfolded differently?

∆

"Oh, husband, ten dresses are not enough! Marguerite shall participate in The Choosing Ceremony, not a simple countryside season! She shall need twenty, no, thirty, at the very least," Alberta le Prince nagged to her husband, the Count.

"Is that so?" the middle-aged man chuckled as he stroked his thin moustache. "If that is the case, then here are a hundred and fifty gold coins. Head to the modiste and pick out everything your heart desires. If it is not enough, then your papa will be happy to provide for more."