The Executioner's Wife

THE EMPTY HOUSE

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The wedding was announced that evening. Confusion clouded the cobblestone streets like a low-hanging storm. The blood of the queen was not yet dried on the scaffold, and here her widowed husband was, already ordering flowers and cake for his next wife. And worse- their new queen would be the wife of his loyal, royal executioner. Nobody really liked the man, although they appreciated, more or less, that he did his job well. To them, the executioner stank of their dead relatives and cold precision, like a grim reaper forced to float among the living. To look him in the eye too long, or be kind to him was almost a pathetic plea to avoid his scythe. And the people hated nothing more than being or feeling pathetic in the face of death himself.

As in all things, the rumors hit the streets before the rays of the sun. There was no pity for the executioner, for who could feel pity for death incarnate? His wife was a foreigner, so there was not much concern for her anyway.

The baker, a silent man whose belly was as doughy as his product, was often the first man to hear the rounds of gossip as people came through his shop. His wife made up for his silence in almost every way. She chattered with the miller's daughter, a sprightly young woman who was always first in line in the morning. The baker listened in. The truth was that he loved gossip as much as his wife, and after hours, they would debate and deliberate over everything they'd heard from their customers that day.

"I saw them drop the executioner off at his house yesterday."

The baker's wife scoffed. "I thought he'd put up a fight."

"He couldn't even stand," the miller's daughter admitted, shaking her head as she pointed out the rolls she wanted. The baker's wife gathered them.

"Did they break his legs?"

"No, the king wouldn't break his legs. He needs him to work."

"Perhaps it was the shock. Or the shame."

Nobody spoke of the torturer, although they all knew who was responsible for the executioner's infirmity. The very thought of him was more cursed than that of the poor executioner.

The miller's daughter continued. "He just sat there for a while."

"For how long?"

The miller's daughter shrugged. "He just sat there, outside his house, staring out into space."

The baker's wife was very interested in this. "Did he cry?"

"No. He just sat there, and I watched for a bit, and I almost said something, but I didn't. I didn't know what to say. I mean, it's not like she died or something."

The baker's wife scoffed again. The miller's daughter poked her lip out, thinking.

"I feel bad for him."

"I don't. He killed my brother."

"It's not like it was personal. Besides, you tried to pay him to be quick about it, and he refused it, and he still did a good, fast job."

The baker's wife squeaked in the irritated way she always did when someone else proved her wrong. Her husband smirked over his quiet work.

"I don't know how someone could be content doing that type of work, anyway. And I don't know how anyone could marry someone who does that. Hell, she's probably used to all that blood and death, wherever the hell she's from."

"He loves her," the miller's daughter said determinedly, as if this statement were a loaf of bread she had just decided to buy. "That's why he fought. That's why he sat there for so long, like he was waiting for her to come home."