In this extract from The Bloody Question, Peter, a seven year old boy, watches one of his father's friends being hung, drawn and quartered for the crime of being a Catholic priest.
Edward Stone stepped to the front of the cart. He swayed a little, then recovered his balance. He flicked his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. In the heat of the day, the blood and sweat and piss had all dried into the dust on his face. Peter wondered why he didn’t put out his hands to steady himself on the side of the cart, then saw that his arms hung uselessly by his side, as floppy as a doll’s.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet but very determined. He seemed to have been waiting for this moment for a long time. Peter looked around the crowd. Some people pulled faces while they listened. Some people looked interested. Some people sighed with impatience. But everyone was listening. The man who had been following them slowly shook his head from side to side as he listened. Father listened with his head bowed, and his arms still out in a cross. People stopped looking at Father for a while, and looked at Edward Stone.
‘I am no traitor,’ he began. ‘I am a loyal servant of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and wish her nothing but good. In times that some can still remember, the Catholic faith was the faith of this land. It is not, as some say, a foreign creed imposed by our enemies, but is as English as the Queen herself. Why, then, are our statues burnt on the fire, are our pictures whitewashed over, are the old, familiar rituals that our people love, ripped away from them?’
An old woman next to Peter – the oldest woman he’d ever seen – was nodding.
‘The people of England have not spoken yet. They have not been asked about what is happening in their name, because those in authority know what the answer would be. But if, when I am gone, others take up the cross, proclaim the truth, continue the work of God’s Catholic church in this land, then we may yet be saved. You all know what you must do.’
‘And now I commend my soul to the mercy of Our Blessed Lord and Saviour, His Blessed Mother and all the angels and saints.’
Edward Stone stepped back, and fainted into the arms of the man in the silk doublet. The man held him there, looking embarrassed. Once or twice during Edward Stone’s speech he had made to step forward, but something had stopped him. It might have been the eerie quiet that had fallen. Because it was quiet. Peter could feel the quiet, as if the crowd was breathing more deeply. For a moment he thought they might all start shouting to let Edward Stone go. He wished they would, because Edward Stone had been hurt, and he was Father’s friend. If Edward Stone came back to their house, and Father looked after him, Father might be happier.
Then the man in the silk doublet flung Edward Stone into the arms of the man who had tied the knot in the rope. Edward Stone opened his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Do what you have to do,’ muttered the man in the doublet, just loud enough for Peter to hear. Then, in a shout, ‘So die all traitors!’ And the crowd, with a great sigh of relief, started shouting ‘So die all traitors!’, first just six or seven of them, then half of them, then all of them; all except the woman next to Peter.
The man holding Edward Stone, who had thick fingers like hairy sausages, tied his hands behind his back and his legs together with two little pieces of rope. Then he put his head inside the knot of the big rope, which was slung over the beam. He tightened the big rope round Edward Stone’s neck so hard that his face went all red, and his mouth opened wide and his tongue shot out. Then the man took the other end of the big rope and made a couple of tugs on it as if he was ringing a bell. He lifted the rope up as high as he could, and pulled it right down to his feet. It made a rasping, whizzing sound as it rubbed against the big beam.
Edward Stone flew up into the air, higher than anyone could jump, and his legs flapped around like a fish out of water. His face seemed to have been turned inside out, and for a moment Peter thought his eyes might fall out. He was trying to swallow air that wasn’t there. The thick fingered man held onto the rope with both hands while he looked hard at Edward. Then he let go slowly until Edward’s feet were touching the ground again, and he was gulping in air in great mouthfuls.
While all this was happening, another man on the cart, who was tall and thin and had a nose hooked like a bird, was scraping an enormous knife, as long as half his arm, up and down a stone block in front of him. It made a high pitched squeaking noise, like a cat getting ready to pounce. Peter felt the sound of it almost as if he was being scraped himself, even above the noise of Edward choking and the apprentices shouting ‘Traitor! Traitor!’ No one else in the crowd was shouting.
The thin man held his knife up high, showing it proudly to the crowd. As he turned it, the sun bounced off it, making people put up their hands to shield their eyes. The thick fingered man tugged on the rope to pull Edward’s head back with one hand, and yanked Edward’s ragged doublet up with the other, showing lice running among the hairs on his stomach. Cradling Edward’s head on his shoulder, he pulled down his trousers. Edward’s cock looked sad and wrinkled and white and afraid of the sun. He put his arms under Edward’s armpits and lifted him up to his full height. He held Edward tight round his chest.
Edward suddenly looked strong, even though his trousers were round his ankles and Peter could see his ribs through the pale flesh on his stomach. He looked up at the sky and said, ‘Father, forgive them.’
The thin man plunged his knife into the brazier. Some sweat fell off him and hissed on the hot metal. He pulled out the knife and looked at it quizzically, turning it in his hand. Then he squinted at Edward’s exposed stomach, shielding his eyes from the sun. All the crowd were silent now. Martin was leaning on one of his friends’ shoulders and slowly moving his tongue round his lips. Father was standing, his arms still out in a cross, looking up, directly into the sun. When Father spoke, his voice was as thin as a woman’s.
‘Edward. When you come into Paradise, pray for me. Pray for me at the throne of mercy.’
Then the knife went in. It went in exactly into Edward’s belly button, the tip of the knife pointing into the hole. The thin man pushed hard, getting the knife in as far as he could, twisting and wiggling it a little. His friend squeezed Edward’s chest tight, wrapping him in his thick arms in a crushing embrace. Edward’s legs shook violently and he let out a piercing yell, leaning his head back so far Peter thought it might snap off. Blood was spurting from Edward’s stomach and landing on the knife, the thin man’s doublet and Edward’s doublet and hose.
‘No!’ shouted Father. His arms fell to his side and his face fell from the sun to the cart. ‘Not him! Me!’ He pushed people aside, roughly, and ran towards the cart. He was nearly there when the man who had been following them stepped forward and stretched out an arm. Father collided with the arm. The man put his face close to Father’s. Peter heard the man whispering.
‘John.’
‘Matthew!’
‘No more of this. He is a traitor. Don’t be a traitor too. You’re better than that. Let justice be done, and then come back to the Queen’s service. She is waiting for you.’
‘It should be me there. Me.’
The man called Matthew nodded at Peter.
‘You have a son, John. He has suffered your regrets for seven years. Think where your duty lies. Bring him up in true religion. Think of what God wants. Remember our talks at Oxford. Remember that night you wept. Wept in my arms. Remember what we were once.’
Father tried to push Matthew aside, but Matthew grabbed him by the wrists.
‘Get back!’ he hissed. ‘You’re not his any more. He’s a dead man, in body and in soul. Come back to me. I’m the future! You’re mine now!’
Meanwhile, on the cart, the thin man was cutting through Edward’s flesh in a neat circle, moving down from his belly button, round through his thigh, under his balls, up through his other thigh, and back to his belly button. Edward screamed at heaven while the other man squeezed him as if he was saying goodbye to a dear friend. When the knife got back to Edward’s belly button, a big flap of flesh fell on to the floor of the cart. Peter saw a tangle of bags and tubes, throbbing and squirming, covered in sticky red liquid, hang down from Edward’s stomach. The thin man thrust both hands into Edward, pushing roughly through the tubes. Edward opened his mouth so wide it seemed to swallow his whole face, and made as if to bite the thin man’s head off. The man tugged hard and pulled something out. He turned to the crowd and held up a large handful of tubes, flapping like a fish just out of water. Then he threw them on the brazier, where they hissed and spluttered. He reached back inside Edward again, pushing his hand in further. Peter heard something rip. He pulled out a fleshy pouch, which wriggled and jumped in his hands, and held that up too. ‘Behold the heart of a traitor!’ he shouted, and everyone except the old woman and Father and Matthew, who were still wrestling with each other, Father pushing forward and Matthew holding him back, cheered. The man threw the heart onto the fire, and it hissed, and turned in on itself.
Edward’s face had gone all white and his head had flopped onto his stomach. Blood was running slowly out of him and spreading into a big pool on the floor of the cart. He was all folded up, all squeezed out, all gone. The man with thick fingers laid him out on the floor. Then he and the thin man picked him up and lifted him off the cart, passing him down to two other men. They laid him on the ground, and put chains on his wrists and his ankles. They attached the other end of the chains to their horses’ saddles, and tugged them to make sure they were on. Then they got on their horses one after another, and turned to look at the thin man. The thin man nodded, and they all made their horses go different ways. Edward – who Peter noticed was still twitching a little – was pulled up and snapped tight, hovering above the ground. It reminded Peter of the cat’s cradle Alice, who looked after him at home, had shown him once. The men urged their horses on. Peter saw them straining. It was hard work for them.
At last, Edward’s flesh started tearing. At first, it tore very slowly, his legs tugging a little further out of his body, his arms twisting a little in their sockets. Then with a great rip, it all happened at once. First his right arm came out, and the horse galloped forward, knocking down a couple of apprentices, to great laughter from the others. Then the opposite leg flew up and off. Edward stayed poised, floating above the ground, suspended between one arm and one leg, spilling what was left of his guts in the dust. Then the arm came out, and he splattered onto the ground, his head lolling to one side. The crowd cheered with relief. The horse with his left arm attached started shitting, and a turd fell in Edward’s outstretched, disembodied hand. The apprentices pointed at it and laughed and cheered.
Edward Stone stepped to the front of the cart. He swayed a little, then recovered his balance. He flicked his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. In the heat of the day, the blood and sweat and piss had all dried into the dust on his face. Peter wondered why he didn’t put out his hands to steady himself on the side of the cart, then saw that his arms hung uselessly by his side, as floppy as a doll’s.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet but very determined. He seemed to have been waiting for this moment for a long time. Peter looked around the crowd. Some people pulled faces while they listened. Some people looked interested. Some people sighed with impatience. But everyone was listening. The man who had been following them slowly shook his head from side to side as he listened. Father listened with his head bowed, and his arms still out in a cross. People stopped looking at Father for a while, and looked at Edward Stone.
‘I am no traitor,’ he began. ‘I am a loyal servant of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and wish her nothing but good. In times that some can still remember, the Catholic faith was the faith of this land. It is not, as some say, a foreign creed imposed by our enemies, but is as English as the Queen herself. Why, then, are our statues burnt on the fire, are our pictures whitewashed over, are the old, familiar rituals that our people love, ripped away from them?’
An old woman next to Peter – the oldest woman he’d ever seen – was nodding.
‘The people of England have not spoken yet. They have not been asked about what is happening in their name, because those in authority know what the answer would be. But if, when I am gone, others take up the cross, proclaim the truth, continue the work of God’s Catholic church in this land, then we may yet be saved. You all know what you must do.’
‘And now I commend my soul to the mercy of Our Blessed Lord and Saviour, His Blessed Mother and all the angels and saints.’
Edward Stone stepped back, and fainted into the arms of the man in the silk doublet. The man held him there, looking embarrassed. Once or twice during Edward Stone’s speech he had made to step forward, but something had stopped him. It might have been the eerie quiet that had fallen. Because it was quiet. Peter could feel the quiet, as if the crowd was breathing more deeply. For a moment he thought they might all start shouting to let Edward Stone go. He wished they would, because Edward Stone had been hurt, and he was Father’s friend. If Edward Stone came back to their house, and Father looked after him, Father might be happier.
Then the man in the silk doublet flung Edward Stone into the arms of the man who had tied the knot in the rope. Edward Stone opened his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Do what you have to do,’ muttered the man in the doublet, just loud enough for Peter to hear. Then, in a shout, ‘So die all traitors!’ And the crowd, with a great sigh of relief, started shouting ‘So die all traitors!’, first just six or seven of them, then half of them, then all of them; all except the woman next to Peter.
The man holding Edward Stone, who had thick fingers like hairy sausages, tied his hands behind his back and his legs together with two little pieces of rope. Then he put his head inside the knot of the big rope, which was slung over the beam. He tightened the big rope round Edward Stone’s neck so hard that his face went all red, and his mouth opened wide and his tongue shot out. Then the man took the other end of the big rope and made a couple of tugs on it as if he was ringing a bell. He lifted the rope up as high as he could, and pulled it right down to his feet. It made a rasping, whizzing sound as it rubbed against the big beam.
Edward Stone flew up into the air, higher than anyone could jump, and his legs flapped around like a fish out of water. His face seemed to have been turned inside out, and for a moment Peter thought his eyes might fall out. He was trying to swallow air that wasn’t there. The thick fingered man held onto the rope with both hands while he looked hard at Edward. Then he let go slowly until Edward’s feet were touching the ground again, and he was gulping in air in great mouthfuls.
While all this was happening, another man on the cart, who was tall and thin and had a nose hooked like a bird, was scraping an enormous knife, as long as half his arm, up and down a stone block in front of him. It made a high pitched squeaking noise, like a cat getting ready to pounce. Peter felt the sound of it almost as if he was being scraped himself, even above the noise of Edward choking and the apprentices shouting ‘Traitor! Traitor!’ No one else in the crowd was shouting.
The thin man held his knife up high, showing it proudly to the crowd. As he turned it, the sun bounced off it, making people put up their hands to shield their eyes. The thick fingered man tugged on the rope to pull Edward’s head back with one hand, and yanked Edward’s ragged doublet up with the other, showing lice running among the hairs on his stomach. Cradling Edward’s head on his shoulder, he pulled down his trousers. Edward’s cock looked sad and wrinkled and white and afraid of the sun. He put his arms under Edward’s armpits and lifted him up to his full height. He held Edward tight round his chest.
Edward suddenly looked strong, even though his trousers were round his ankles and Peter could see his ribs through the pale flesh on his stomach. He looked up at the sky and said, ‘Father, forgive them.’
The thin man plunged his knife into the brazier. Some sweat fell off him and hissed on the hot metal. He pulled out the knife and looked at it quizzically, turning it in his hand. Then he squinted at Edward’s exposed stomach, shielding his eyes from the sun. All the crowd were silent now. Martin was leaning on one of his friends’ shoulders and slowly moving his tongue round his lips. Father was standing, his arms still out in a cross, looking up, directly into the sun. When Father spoke, his voice was as thin as a woman’s.
‘Edward. When you come into Paradise, pray for me. Pray for me at the throne of mercy.’
Then the knife went in. It went in exactly into Edward’s belly button, the tip of the knife pointing into the hole. The thin man pushed hard, getting the knife in as far as he could, twisting and wiggling it a little. His friend squeezed Edward’s chest tight, wrapping him in his thick arms in a crushing embrace. Edward’s legs shook violently and he let out a piercing yell, leaning his head back so far Peter thought it might snap off. Blood was spurting from Edward’s stomach and landing on the knife, the thin man’s doublet and Edward’s doublet and hose.
‘No!’ shouted Father. His arms fell to his side and his face fell from the sun to the cart. ‘Not him! Me!’ He pushed people aside, roughly, and ran towards the cart. He was nearly there when the man who had been following them stepped forward and stretched out an arm. Father collided with the arm. The man put his face close to Father’s. Peter heard the man whispering.
‘John.’
‘Matthew!’
‘No more of this. He is a traitor. Don’t be a traitor too. You’re better than that. Let justice be done, and then come back to the Queen’s service. She is waiting for you.’
‘It should be me there. Me.’
The man called Matthew nodded at Peter.
‘You have a son, John. He has suffered your regrets for seven years. Think where your duty lies. Bring him up in true religion. Think of what God wants. Remember our talks at Oxford. Remember that night you wept. Wept in my arms. Remember what we were once.’
Father tried to push Matthew aside, but Matthew grabbed him by the wrists.
‘Get back!’ he hissed. ‘You’re not his any more. He’s a dead man, in body and in soul. Come back to me. I’m the future! You’re mine now!’
Meanwhile, on the cart, the thin man was cutting through Edward’s flesh in a neat circle, moving down from his belly button, round through his thigh, under his balls, up through his other thigh, and back to his belly button. Edward screamed at heaven while the other man squeezed him as if he was saying goodbye to a dear friend. When the knife got back to Edward’s belly button, a big flap of flesh fell on to the floor of the cart. Peter saw a tangle of bags and tubes, throbbing and squirming, covered in sticky red liquid, hang down from Edward’s stomach. The thin man thrust both hands into Edward, pushing roughly through the tubes. Edward opened his mouth so wide it seemed to swallow his whole face, and made as if to bite the thin man’s head off. The man tugged hard and pulled something out. He turned to the crowd and held up a large handful of tubes, flapping like a fish just out of water. Then he threw them on the brazier, where they hissed and spluttered. He reached back inside Edward again, pushing his hand in further. Peter heard something rip. He pulled out a fleshy pouch, which wriggled and jumped in his hands, and held that up too. ‘Behold the heart of a traitor!’ he shouted, and everyone except the old woman and Father and Matthew, who were still wrestling with each other, Father pushing forward and Matthew holding him back, cheered. The man threw the heart onto the fire, and it hissed, and turned in on itself.
Edward’s face had gone all white and his head had flopped onto his stomach. Blood was running slowly out of him and spreading into a big pool on the floor of the cart. He was all folded up, all squeezed out, all gone. The man with thick fingers laid him out on the floor. Then he and the thin man picked him up and lifted him off the cart, passing him down to two other men. They laid him on the ground, and put chains on his wrists and his ankles. They attached the other end of the chains to their horses’ saddles, and tugged them to make sure they were on. Then they got on their horses one after another, and turned to look at the thin man. The thin man nodded, and they all made their horses go different ways. Edward – who Peter noticed was still twitching a little – was pulled up and snapped tight, hovering above the ground. It reminded Peter of the cat’s cradle Alice, who looked after him at home, had shown him once. The men urged their horses on. Peter saw them straining. It was hard work for them.
At last, Edward’s flesh started tearing. At first, it tore very slowly, his legs tugging a little further out of his body, his arms twisting a little in their sockets. Then with a great rip, it all happened at once. First his right arm came out, and the horse galloped forward, knocking down a couple of apprentices, to great laughter from the others. Then the opposite leg flew up and off. Edward stayed poised, floating above the ground, suspended between one arm and one leg, spilling what was left of his guts in the dust. Then the arm came out, and he splattered onto the ground, his head lolling to one side. The crowd cheered with relief. The horse with his left arm attached started shitting, and a turd fell in Edward’s outstretched, disembodied hand. The apprentices pointed at it and laughed and cheered.