The Butcher of Beaumont Read online

  The Butcher of Beaumont

  A novel by JanJan Untamed

  Please note that this is a work of historical fiction. The names, characters, places and other incidents are the product of the author’s twisted imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, businesses, events or locations is entirely coincidental. Content warning: This novel contains graphic language, graphic sex scenes, graphic violence and is not recommended for children under the age of eighteen. All rights reserved

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  New Beginnings

  After death

  Chapter One

  I stand at the very heart of the frenzied crowd with my chin down and the hood of my dirty woolen robe pulled up over my dark, tangled hair. My heart is pounding in my head, deafening a lion’s share of the noise erupting from the screaming mob. A crush of twisted souls, whom in their mutual craving for satisfaction have melded together into one pulsating beast. My small form is smashed in among finely-dressed noblemen and peasants alike, who have gathered in their best silks and itchy homespun for today’s festivities. The noblewoman standing beside me does not care that I am a peasant. She does not care that my skin is black. She does not notice the fire coal and road dust on my soiled, gray cloak rubbing off on her beautiful yellow gown. The woman does not care that we are surrounded by smelly, sweaty bodies, that have not bathed in weeks. Today we are all the same.

  Our eyes are locked on the grand stage before us. This stage is the town’s pride and joy. It is second to the church and third to the white palace where our King resides. A stage built by the skilled hands of the best carpenters to be found. They came by water. They came over land. They came with chests puffed up, with pride and smiling faces. They came to please. They built this stage using hardwood harvested from Huntington Forest. Wood lovingly pounded with the finest hammers, and the straightest nails that the blacksmith has to offer. Only the best for our King.

  On this stage, there are no actors playing out a tragic romance. Poets recite no flowery odes to love. There are no sonnets about a lady’s pale beauty or womanly charms. There are no praises for the plump ripeness of bountiful bosoms. You will not hear any choirs raising their voices in hymns, or a harpist plucking his strings. On this stage, the life-hardened hangman and the dead-eyed executioner are the stars. They stand tall and proud in the blazing sun being cheered on like the great gladiators of old. The thick crowd is restless, and they are thirsty. Neither water nor wine can wet their dry palates. Oh, no. The beast thirsts for spilled blood. It hungers to see the executioner drop his axe. The beast is here to cheer death. It is here to celebrate the sight of some poor fool’s soul leaving his wretched body.

  The mob screams in delight each time fresh blood, still warm from the vein, splatters the faces of those lucky enough to get a place up front. There are eight bodies swinging from their necks and a line of offenders awaiting their turn to dance with the devil at the end of a rope. The bloodlust will be satisfied this day. We will get the gore that was promised to us. My own thoughts are barely heard over the drumbeat in my head and the mob screaming in my ears. Today they came out in the highest numbers yet. Today is special, you see.

  “Burn her!” The woman in yellow silk cries feverishly. “Burn the witch!” She pumps her fist in the air as if she can reach out and strike the doomed offender from where we stand. “Burn the witch!” Her sweaty underarms are soaking through the expensive ruffles and lace. The stench of her sweat blends in with the rest. “Burn her!”

  The small children peeking out from the pleats in her voluminous skirt take up her call for death. They summon the reaper along with their mother. To hear such filth being spewed in such small voices, makes me wonder what sort of men and women they will grow up to be. So young. So vicious. Their parents must be very proud.

  “Burn the witch!”

  The boy who is no more than three years repeats their every word.

  “Kill the fucking bitch!” Her husband yells. “Set her afire!”

  “Kill the witch!” A girl of ten screams with her father. “Kill her!”

  Her husband wraps his hands around his mouth to make his words louder. The woman in the yellow silk smells as if she never bathes herself. It is not only a sweaty, musky odor like mine. She reeks with the stench of rotting meat from not washing herself during her menses. I would take a step away from her if we were not crowded together like eggs in a basket. The fisherman on the other side of me has squeezed my ass twice already. Each time I glare at him, he smiles at me with a mouth full of blackened teeth. If I press any closer, he will think that I am accepting of his advances and rape me where I stand. No one will stop him because I am unescorted and a peasant woman. I did not walk for weeks to be molested by a pig. I am here for the burning the same as everyone else.

  “Burn the bloody witch!”

  The molester yells, giving my ass another squeeze. I want to lay him low and throw his stinking corpse on top of the pile underneath the stage. If I strike him, I will end up in the line to swing. No one raises hands to nobles or merchants except other nobles. I did not come all this way to hang.

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my cloak. I have an anxious ache in my gut. This is my first execution. It is worse than I expected it to be. There is nothing joyful about watching a starving woman hang for stealing a loaf of bread to feed her hungry children. Or a drunkard hanged for not paying his gambling debts. They hang a peasant for stabbing the nobleman that he found on top of his daughter who is a child of eight. Orphaned children are hanged for snatching apples from a farmer’s cart. I bend over and vomit when the crowd cheers the sight of small, dangling feet. Some of the vomit splatters onto the hem of the pretty, yellow silk. They rejoice when I must turn my eyes away and swallow down the bile that threatens to rise again. Executions for petty crimes amuse the crowd. The petty crimes are not why we are here. That is not why we came. We are here to watch a witch burn for sorcery.

  My eyes are drawn to a woman in a nun’s habit. Her face is covered, but her dark hands are visible. It makes me curious because she is brown. I am not surprised to find her here because these religious fanatics are all the same. Only, she is not cheering or throwing things. She is as still as a statue with her eyes locked ahead as she too awaits the burning. I turn away and forget about the nun with the brown hands.

  They hang the rest of the line and behead the rapists before we get a glance of her. By the time they bring forth the Payne family, the bodies lying in the sun’s scorching rays are beginning to foul the air. I must restrain myself from covering my face with my handkerchief or running away from this angry place. No matter how fierce the temptation, I cannot. I must stay and do what I came to do.

  The crowd begins to boo and throw rotting things at the group of dark-skinned people being led to the platform. There are four all-together. First comes an older woman with the face of a woman twenty years younger and hair like polished silver. Her head is high, and her eyes are sharp as she faces the mob. I feel a tinge of pride for her fearlessness. They throw horse shit at her and she does not flinch. They spit in her face. The woman smiles like a warrior.

  “Burn her!” I scream wildly. “Burn the witch!”

  I make sure my voice is heard over all others as the prisoners are walked up the steps. The younger woman fights the guards at the last minute. She is tall, dark and breathtakingly beautiful. She is the witch that we came to see.

  “Burn her!” I cry pressing forward. “Burn the bloody witch!”

  She hears me, and her eyes search me out in the crowd.

  “Burn the witch!” I scream as loudly as my voice will carry.

  Her brown eyes find me. I drop my hood for the briefest of seconds. My heart tightens like a noose when the witch’s eyes fill with sad tears. I cannot touch her with my
hands. I can only reach out to her with my own tearful gaze instead. My heart breaks in three as I cover my head again. I had to let them know that I am here. I had to let them know that I did not forsake them. No matter how many times they warned me to stay hidden, I had to come. I had to say goodbye. My mother and sister are all I have, and the Cardinal has sentenced them to death.

  Mother’s husband tries to block the offal being thrown at her with his own body. His name is Charles and he has been taking care of us since before I can remember. I watch as Charles is dragged forward and forced to his knees before the executioner. Mother is begging for mercy.

  “Do not kill him. Do not kill my husband. He is innocent. He is a good man.”

  Her cries go unanswered. A guard holds her husband’s head in place on the chopping block.

  “I love you, my dear wife!”

  It is his final cry. The axe comes down without warning. It slices through flesh and bone before embedding in the wood with a thud. Mother screams when Charles’ head rolls off the platform into the dirt. I gasp aloud. They killed him! I knew they would, but it is still a shock when you are witnessing it just steps away.

  The mob kicks his head around like children playing ball. Elizabeth-Ann faints the way she always does when something bad happens. She is my second mother. They all coddled me right up until they were taken away. Her husband William rushes to her side and receives a knock on his head for daring to comfort his terrified wife. My brother would not hurt a soul. He does not deserve to be up there. None of them deserve to die, but especially him. He is a big, quiet man with kind eyes and a soft voice. I read his lips as he too is forced to his knees. I love you, Beth-Ann. My sister is sobbing her heart out. I want to save them. I must do something. What can I do? If I make myself known, they will burn me with her. Thud. Williams head falls at the executioner’s feet. He kicks it to the mob.

  “Burn the witch!” The crowd cries. “Kill them all!”

  Mother and sister are forced apart when they try to cling together. They drag Mother to a swinging noose. No! Not Mother! Let her go! I scream silently. This is the woman who birthed me and raised me to be who I am. They are dying to protect me. I am the witch. Not Beth-Ann. I should step-up and proclaim my guilt to free them from this hideous fate. Poor, sweet, beautiful Beth-Ann should not have to die for me. Mother’s hands are tied behind her back before the noose is dropped over her head.

  Mother! I cry inside. Tell me what to do! Tell me how to stop this! Her voice fills my head and makes the hurt worse. You fool girl! You should not be here! I told you to stay away! You are the last of our kind and we need you to carry on our line. Run, Mae, run! Her eyes burn into mine. Mother... Please let me stop this. Let me tell them the truth! I can save you! She shakes her silver head. Shut up, girl. There is no saving us. This is where we die, Maeve. If you come forward, they will kill us anyway. It is an honor to die for you, my beautiful baby. I love you. I will love you in my next life and the one after that. Do not ever blame yourself for our deaths. You are precious to us. Get on a ship and leave here, Mae. Find an honest man that can protect you. Treat him well and have children to carry on our bloodline. Do not trust anyone except your husband. My knees threaten to buckle underneath me. But, Mother. How will I know when I have found the one? Where should I go? She responds softly. You are a smart girl. You will figure it out. Your sister loves you. She is afraid, but she is ready. I do not want this to be your last memory of us. Go home, love. Prepare for your journey. The noose is tightened around her delicate neck. This is the part where a hero comes swinging from the trees and saves them both. I love you Maeve Payne, she says. I love you too, Mother.

  The floor underneath my mother drops away.

  I am grateful when her neck snaps at the end of the rope. She did not strangle to death. She did not suffer. My legs are wobbly. I feel faint. Mother! I want to scream aloud. Oh, Mother! Please stay with me. What will I do without you? There is no response for the first time in my life. She is silenced forever. The rope is cut without care. Her body falls to the pile where it lies among thieves and rapists. She deserves better than this. Mother was a good woman. This is not the time to cry. I need to be strong for Beth-Ann. Poor Beth-Ann who is in shock as she is led to the pyre. They built it to burn for hours. She lets them tie her to the post. Elizabeth-Ann shakes her head when they try to put a mask over her head.

  “I want to see you all when I die.” Her voice is loud and clear. “Remember my face. I curse you and your wretched families. I curse your children and their children. I will be back to haunt you into your graves!”

  She screams when someone drops a match into the wood and hay. It all goes up with a whoosh. I open my mouth to scream. It is covered with a strange hand. A silk-clad arm locks around my waist and drags me backward through the crowd.

  “Stop fighting me you fool! I am helping you. If they think you are a sympathizer, you will hang with them. If they find out what you are, you will burn. Is that what you want?”

  I shake my head no. It is not what I want. Wait a minute.

  “How are you in my head? Who are you?” I demand as he drags me away.

  “I am a fool saving the life of another fool.” He is angry. “Your mother is right, you are an idiot for coming here. Go back to your home and forget this place.”

  I stop fighting him and I let him back me out of the town square.

  “How do you know my mother?” I ask without speaking.

  “I do not know her. The woman reached out to me and begged me to get you out of here. She was dying, I felt obligated.

  After we put some distance between ourselves and the mob, the stranger pulls into the dank space between two closed-up shops. The streets are empty because the town folk are in the square. I stumble over a woman on her knees in the muck with a man’s cock in her mouth. The two of us fall against the man whose dirty hose are pushed down around his knees. His short, fat cock pokes the arm of my cloak. The man’s bright-pink cock touching my person enrages the stranger who grabs the woman first and tosses her into the street with her milky breasts exposed. The man with his cock out, he beats with his fists. My rescuer goes mad with anger and pummels the man’s face before smashing his fist into his softening cock over and over and until he faints away in the narrow space. The stranger keeps beating him. I am horrified when a stream of blood lands on my face. I am also excited when I should not be. The sight of a man being beaten to death is sickening. However, his reason is honorable. It is rather sweet.

  The stranger grabbed a man, but he drops a corpse. He moves me away from the broken body near my feet and turns me to face him. I hold my breath when he pushes my hood back. I know what he sees. An average woman by pretty standards. Too old to be a girl. Too young to be elderly. I have my father’s dark skin and clear gray eyes that are too big for my face. Payne eyes. Witches eyes. I am the runt of the family and small where I wish I was not. My breasts are too small. My hips are too slim. This body barely curves where it is supposed to. I will never be beautiful. My nose is too wide, and my lips are too full. My thick hair has not seen a comb or brush in a week. It is too tight to comb anyway, and it will never lay down smooth like mothers. I am cursed with being me.

  Why does any of that matter now? Why should I care what he sees? I should not be in the company of a strange man anyway. He could steal me and turn me into a slave. He is dressed like a noble, but he could be a thief. However, he does not look like a thief. In fact, he is quite handsome. His hair is more white than yellow. It is clean but too shaggy to be appropriate. And his eyes... My lips part in wonder. His eyes are too green to be real. I am tempted to reach out and touch them to be sure. This stranger’s eyes are greener than the land. Looking into them makes my heart feel funny. He is not stocky like William, but he is tall, and he appears well-made and strong from the fit of his clothing. His tight hose stretch over his long, muscular legs like blue skin. His fancy vest hugs a flat belly and a wide, muscled chest as though he wields his sword often. I wonder if he can fight? He is strange indeed, but he will do.

  Chapter Two

  “Strange?”

  His soft lips curl ever-so-slightly in the corners, but I would be foolish to mistake it for a smile. I doubt if this one smiles much at all. He bends over to wipe the blood from his hands. The stranger uses the dead man’s jacket to wipe them on. I watch as he digs in the corpse’s pocket. I was correct, he is a thief. The stranger tosses aside the dead man’s money and gold watch. He ignores the heavy gold chain.