Axe

I’m a cut above, you know. I may have left my silk robe at the Palace, but my dignity is intact. I prayed this morning, for the last time. I tried to make them see sense about the churches, but they would not have it. So now, they will not have me. It is cold, but I think they feel it more than I do. My breath comes out visibly. It almost reminds me of my favourite charger, the time van Dyck painted me. Happy days.

     Ah, there is the scaffold. The steps point to a throne higher than these… peasants can ever imagine. I walk slowly, to my new coronation. Every step seems to echo in the sharp, clear air. Do they repent, now, of what they did to me, for putting me on trial, for the loss of so many lives in the wars? Here is my praying stool, from which I may never rise as I am now. It has the aspect of an anvil, for readying for battle, forging weapons. I have mettle enough.

     The man in the black hood stands to the side. Yet he is merely an instrument of God’s will. He may not kill me, be it but God’s will. I undo the long scarf around my neck, keeping a level gaze. I dare him to turn away. Then I kneel to my altar, as a swallow dives, immaculate, already at peace. Come on. Chop, chop.