Sample

Prologue

Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
(Letter, life of Mandell Creighton) 
Acton, First Baron (1834 - 1902)

"Silence, dogs! And move yourselves, or you’ll join him in the cart," shouted John Hathorne: his voice resentful, his posture formidable.
   Inside the cart, Joshua had been bound and gagged. He was heading towards Gallows Hill, pulled along by two horses struggling desperately against the elements, helped by a group of people who were all dressed in black, satanic robes.
   Joshua was twenty years of age: a mere boy, considering his alleged crime. His once smooth complexion and youthful appearance had been ruined: long blond hair, which normally hung loose, was now clinging to his sunken cheeks. His eyes were shut tight, increasing what few crows feet he had. His whole body was nearing a state of convulsions as he fought to remain composed.
   Selecting the foetal position he tried in vain to shelter from the violent storm sweeping the barren landscape. The powerful wind caused the cart to sway unsteadily: the sound high pitched and piercing. Electricity arced, thunder crashed, and the rain came down like a hail of bullets. It was not a good night to die, but then again, when was?
   Joshua forced his eyelids open as the group steered into the final stretch, climbing the steep hill, to a place that would finally seal his fate. Disconcerted voices penetrated the air, groaning about the task that lay ahead.
   The old cart shuddered on the uneven ground as it finally reached its destination, increasing Joshua’s anxiety. His intestines tightened; he’d already soiled himself. He remembered vividly his mother’s screams as the witch-hunters had called to apprehend him. She’d clawed and fought and pushed and pleaded for them to leave him alone: she had begged them not to take her son. If only his father had been alive, perhaps it would have been a different story.
   The back of the cart was tied to a huge rock near the gallows. Joshua felt a multitude of hands grope around his weakened frame before he was finally hauled from the wagon and made to stand in the centre of a circle of six people.
   A gust of wind cut through their path, causing Joshua to lose his balance. He fell, and three of them toppled with him.
   As they wrestled to their feet, John Hathorne lurched forward and kicked Joshua in the stomach. "I should renounce the devil and all his works! You evil witch!"
   Joshua doubled over, winded. There was nothing he could do to protest, and his restraints prevented any physical retaliation.
   He was quickly pulled to his feet and dragged towards the gallows. He squinted upwards. They seemed much higher and more daunting now that he was so close to them.
   Joshua’s insides churned and he felt physically sick. He twisted and rived in an effort to break free. He tried to jump but his persecutors continued to beat him about the head and face: he cowered as their blows were almost in rhythm with the rain.
   None of their accusations had been true. He wasn’t a witch. Joshua tried to protest but the gag was too tight; he tried to hold back but the crowd was too strong.
   Because of the adverse weather conditions - apparently his fault as well - it took them a full five minutes to position him correctly on the gallows. Once in position the gag was removed from his mouth.
   "You murdering bastards!" he shouted. "You can’t do this to me!"
   Leading magistrate, John Hathorne, glared on, untouched by the young man’s sudden outburst.
   "Have you anything to say for yourself, Joshua?"
   "I’m innocent, you know that." It was one last attempt to save his worthless life.
   The pelting rain stung his face, causing him to blink several times.
   "I’m sure you believe yourself to be." The magistrate’s tone was patronising.
   The three men holding Joshua were suddenly swept from their feet by another potent gust of wind and he fell from the gallows.
   The noose tightened, restricting the flow of air to his lungs. He thrashed around frantically, trying to scream, but the ever-tightening rope prevented his vocal chords from working.
   The torrent of water pounded his eyes and blurred his vision: the freak conditions made it impossible for him to raise his feet back to the supporting beam, which was now being knocked out of the way.
   The edges of his vision were black and fuzzy. He knew he was dying and it came as a relief. Once his brain had accepted that fact, he stopped struggling.

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