The Founding of the House of Vanois

(A family history written by the first Duke of Vanois)

Purse-slitting was a fine art. You slipped up behind the man, a short, razor sharp knife palmed in your fist. You spotted where the bag of coins hung from his belt -- no one had thought of putting pockets in pants yet -- and, when he was distracted, put a slice in the bottom of the bag. Then you grabbed the coins and kept moving. If all went smoothly, it might be hours before he realized his pouch was empty.

The girl didn't have the technique down. She waited for her victim to cheer the King as he passed, but then she picked one with too full a pouch, and the coins overflowed her hand. Others in the crowd grabbed her before the last gold Louis hit the cobblestones. A couple of the King's Archers came over to seize the prisoner.

Ordinarily, she could have looked forward to a swift and perfunctory trial before she paid the price of theft. But she had been caught red-handed in the presence of the King himself. A breach of the King's peace was summarily punishable by Henri himself, and he had ordered her to be hanged forthwith. He could not himself stay: there was a voyage to begin. The hangman knew it must be important. Louis had often remarked that he knew but four fine sights -- a priest at the altar, a soldier in the field, a beautiful woman in bed, and a thief on the gallows.

The hangman moved quickly. The two archers had finished binding her hands behind her back, and were ready to turn her over. He could see that she was young, maybe 18, probably still in her apprenticeship as a cutpurse. Long red hair and a pretty figure were nicely set off by a simple green dress. Her light skin was pale with shock. A few seconds before she had been on the verge of copping a fistful of gold: now she was gallows bait. She was still trying to babble out an explanation: someone else had slit the purse and then was frightened away, she had just tried to keep the man's gold from falling.

It might even have been true, he reflected, but that made no difference in the face of a royal command. "Let me have her," the hangman told the archers. Turning to her, he said simply, "You have had your trial, before the King himself. Let's get it over with." He slid the noose from his belt (you kept one ready when attending the King). It was just a slipknot in four feet of hemp, easy to carry and good enough for a criminal. At the sight of it the girl leapt back and gasped: only the archers holding her bound arms kept her in place.

"I pray thee ... not this," she begged.

A pretty young lass, barely beginning her life, pleading for its full span. In the fullness of time she might become a wife and a mother, and die decades from now in bed, surrounded by her descendants. Aye, the hangman thought, he had ended too many of those, but it was his job. That was not her fate: she would die today, spinning and squirming in anguish while dangling on public display, a proof of the King's justice.

The hangman slid the noose over her head; she struggled, but the archers held her firm. He got it in place, the knot snugged under her chin, her hair still inside its grasp; the details could be worked out at the gallows. "I've got her now, you can release her." The archers let go and the hangman worked through the crowd, already thinning out as it followed the King. He used the noose as a choke collar to pull her behind him. The members of the crowd opened a way for him. Many looked with pity toward his young victim, who was weeping and still trying to persuade them of her innocence.

Three blocks to the gallows, and he had to force her most of the way. With hands bound and the noose gripping her neck when she balked, she

had little choice, but she used what she had. The rope would tighten as she dug in her feet, then he would hear her pleading stop as the hemp cut off her breath, and a few seconds later the rope would go slack as she gave up and took some more stops, panting before she tried to stop again. The hangman kept going. There was no sense in being gentle about it. That just prolonged their fear. It also gave them more chance to talk, and he did not care to get friendly with someone he, in a few minutes, would have to turn off and leave dangling and strangling.

At the sight of the gallows she let out a scream and dug her heels into the cobblestones. The hangman just kept pulling; there was a wheezing noise and then her voice was silenced. Still she yanked at the rope like a fish on the line, finally falling face-down in the street. He turned around and faced her; she began gasping as the line went slack. She lay there, her green dress spread on the road, her head turned to the side, gasping and gagging through the folds of her hair. It was a rather thin dress, the hangman noted with interest. Then, grabbing her by the shoulders, he lifted her up. He spread the hair out of her face and slid it over her shoulders, and then pulled at the rope somewhat more gently. "Come, lass, there is no escaping. It must be done. You only prolong your fears and your pain by this."

"I will give you anything," she replied, "anything. I will give you what I never gave my lover. Anything, to escape dying this way." Tears ran down her cheeks and a bit of foam escaped her mouth as she panted.

It was a tempting offer. She was young and slender, and the light dress clung to her pale body. Still ... if anyone passed the gallows, and noticed it was missing its rightful occupant, the hangman himself would take their place. Louis called his hangman the "first servant of my Throne," and expected absolute loyalty.

"Let's get it done with," he replied, and a few moments (and struggles) later they were at the foot of the gallows. Now she fell to her knees, sobbing. Standing over her, the hangman shifted the knot to the back of her neck, and pulled the long red hair through it. Still keeping a grip on the rope, he made sure that the ladder was firmly positioned. They were ready. He stood her up and turned her around, with her back to him and the ladder.

It seemed strange, in a way. He was accustomed to working before immense crowds, and the square was entirely empty. The only ones who knew of the execution were those near the King, and they had gone off with the royal procession. Would it be harder or easier on her, he wondered? Was it easier to dangle without others watching your ignomy and disgrace, or harder to die without one sympathetic face in view?

He would never find out: she would be the only one who could say, and in a few moments her throat would be seized by the hemp, whose grip would not release while she lived.

He lifted her to her feet and she fell back against him. Just as well, he thought as he mounted the ladder for a few steps, keeping the rope as taut as he could without stopping her breath. Now came the tricky part. The first step, the point when they left the earth forever, was the hardest to coax.

Slowly he pulled the rope tighter. Her sobbing turned to a high squeak and then ceased. She yanked on the rope, twitching her head forward as hard as she could. Finally she had to have air, and stepped backward onto the first rung of the ladder. He'd done it. As the noose loosened, she gasped in the precious air. He let her have one breath and then pulled again. This time she could only hold out for a few seconds, and another rung passed under her.

It took a full minute, but the hangman was now high on the ladder, his shoulders above the crossbeam; the victim's head was between his feet. He hooked one arm over the beam to steady himself, and prepared for the final hoist.

He spread his knees and dragged her up between them. Her feet were between his; being shorter, her head was now just below his chin. He could feel her soft rump pressing against his loins, her heaving chest pressed his belly. And, he realized, he was hard as a rock. Well, he reflected, there is nothing wrong with liking your work.

He cinched the rope around the crossbeam, so that she would die in the traditional place, about a foot of hemp between her and the wooden beam. Glancing around the empty square, he stopped to take in the unusual sight. They were seeing the view from ten feet up. The experience was nothing new for him, but for his victims it was a strange sight, and he let them gaze for a few moments before beginning their last trial. He thought that it was probably easier to die alone, at least if you had to die this way. With a woman, the crowds could gape at her loins as her legs kicked and flew or, worse yet, snapped up. With a man, his erecting codling might push out of its cod-pouch, leaving the ladies to giggle as it finally sent his seed flying into the air together with his soul. And for either, there were the stains that told of bladder and bowels releasing in their body's last agony, the jeering crowds clapping out a dancing tune as the victim's legs jerked. No, alone would be better, less degrading. He would be the only witness, and he at least would not laugh or mock, but simply do his job.

Her hands tied, her neck already linked to the gallows, her feet perched unsteadily on the ladder rung, she was perfectly helpless now, ready for the slow dying to begin when the hangman chose. She found strange sensations building within her. She was no longer in control, but completely in his hands. The release from control was somehow attractive. Deprived of all choice, her body was free to dwell upon itself. She felt her breath coming faster and her head began to spin.

He flattened one of his legs against the ladder. One slight push and she would be spinning and kicking in the air. In the air, yet dying from inability to inhale one bit of it. He placed his hand on her shoulder and prepared to give that push. His palm would be her last contact with another person, her last contact with anything but the rope that was killing her.

Then he noticed it. Her sobbing had changed ... now it had a pattern. She would inhale, then stop as if holding her breath, then gasp it out and repeat. It was strange, not at all like the usual panicked gasping. As an experiment he tightened her grip on her shoulder, as if ready to push her off, and her breathing became even more forceful, and each exhalation became a faint moan. Her arms began to writhe; pressed as they were against his manhood, he noticed he was beginning to breathe a little more forcefully as well.

Glancing down her body from his vantage point, he was awestricken. Of her head he could see only the long red tresses and her white forehead; she was beginning to roll her head back and forth against his chest. But below that he could see her breasts heaving with each breath, the soft, pale flesh expanding within the green cloth. The pink of one nipple was barely visible above the green. And both it and its sister seemed ready to poke through the cloth. Her moaning became louder and she rolled her head on his chest in time. In her mind she was now drifting, the pleasure building up in waves, sweeping softly through her young body, filling every bit of it, yet even as the pleasure grew the desire for it grew yet more rapidly.

By now, he was so hard that he felt as if he would burst through the dress and his own pants as well. It was strange, he thought, the similarity of the beginning of life and of its end, of the ultimate pleasure and the ultimate anguish. Here they were pressed in close contact, her between his legs, the scent of her tresses in his nose, a contact nearly as intimate as .....

Then her entire body began to writhe. Each breath now ended with a passioned "E-e-e," each growing higher and louder, as if her body was straining to contain an explosion. Her shoulders moved back with each gasp, and he could see her belly heaving. Inside her loins she felt a warm glow, rising into fire, and she felt a strange warm moistness in her innermost feminity, a moistness that flowed downward, covering her soft lips as if preparing to welcome entry into the center of herself. She could not explain why she was crying out, and could have cared less.

"E-e-e... ungh, uh. E-e-e ... ung, uh." He slid down just a little, and found his membrem virile caught between her buttocks, swept back and forth as her hips moved. "E-e-e, UNGH, uh" Her body was now acting on its own. Her hips lifted upward as if called to the heavens, as if some force of spasmodic pleasure was trying to fly free. Almost without his consent his own hips began to move. As her shoulders pressed rhythmically into his chest he felt that rising sensation in his male glands which told him that his own moment was quickly approaching. "EEEE, UNGH, UH!" He took his hands from her shoulders and slid them around her, carefully stroking each breast. There was no one to see and he could not have cared less if the entire town were there. His stroking grew carried away and her dress slipped from her shoulders. Her pale breasts were now bare, but neither person noticed or cared.

She sucked in a lungful of air, held it for a long second. He felt her shoulders drive backward into him, her body arch forward on the ladder, and she let out one last "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Her hips thrust outward and her loins locked tight as the fiery pleasure exploded in her belly and spread outward in powerful surges through her stiffened body, heating it until it seemed as if her very bones would melt. He clutched her breasts firmly as at the same instant his own pleasure peaked, the muscles and glands in his loins seizing tightly in pleasure, changing to pulsing as his sensations, bursting outward with his seed, contained by his clothing rather than by her warm moistness. For an instant they were together on the gallows, two bodies pressed upward, both bodies seizing hard, pulsing together. Her last cry of pleasure changed to a long moan that surged louder and softer as her body jerked with the cycles of its joy and release.

Then it happened. In her ecstasy, her feet slipped from the rung and went through the ladder. Still contained by his legs, she slid straight downward on his body, dropping a few inches. Her moan gave way to a high-pitched wheeze and then was choked into silence. Her body still shivered as the last waves of pleasure ranged up and down. His body relaxed, spent, the pressure and shivering of her soft form adding to the completeness of his release.

Her ecstasy ended, and suddenly she awakened to the pain of the noose. Her feet jerked as he tried to pull them through the ladder and find footing again. The hangman awakened, too, and moved by reflex born of long practice. His hand left her breast, found her shoulder, and rolled her off the ladder.

It didn't quite work. One of her feet hooked the side of the ladder and she struggled to keep its grip and to pull the other foot back on. Unbalanced as she was, and hands bound behind her back, she had no chance, but with her need for air mounting toward pain she struggled for anything. The hangman bent down, pulled her foot free, and let it go. Now she was suspended by nothing but her neck. She swung away but on the return swing her feet again tried to grip the ladder. Her toes snagged it but then pulled free. By now the pleasure was fading, replaced by panic. The noose bit into her neck, squeezing it tighter than she could ever have imagined, driving her tongue upward into her mouth, sealing off the air. She awakened to the realization that she could not breathe, that she had already taken the last breath she would ever take, that she was helplessly danging between heaven and earth, unable to touch anything that would save her ... except perhaps the ladder.

The hangman descended a few rungs and grabbed her by the back and stomach, holding her free of the ladder. She could feel her feet swishing through the empty air, her lungs craving for a breath. He could feel her belly muscles tighten and heave, this time not in pleasure, but in an attempt to pull air past the noose's vicious squeeze. Her legs snapped up to her chest, enfolding his hand against her belly as he held her in the air.

He glanced upward. Her head was twisted to the side, her face half covered by her tresses. He could hear some gurgling which told him it was too far forward. She could feel some tiny movement of air in her chest ... perhaps just a little more, just one breath. Her eyes, clamped shut in suffering, opened a bit and looked at him as she grimaced. As her blue eyes met his, she seemed to be begging him to stop holding her away from the ladder, let her stand free again, let her inhale one more sweet breath of air. He shook his head no. "The best I can give you now is a quick death," he whispered sadly, then looked away. Her eyes closed again and her body began to shake in the beginning of her death agonies. The spasms became more and more violent. Her bare breasts quivered as her body shook and her chest heaved, striving to draw in a bit of air to allay the body's horrendous pain and desperation.

By now her lungs were burning, her chest jerking as she fought desperately for life. Her arms and legs ached as the muscles longed for oxygen. The pain was excruciating. Her legs jerked down, feet fully extending to the ground, and held there. Then they snapped up again and, after a few seconds, back down. Each move made her body pitch back and forth, but he steadied her. Her desperation, the mounting agony overwhelmed her mind and she began to lose control. She felt her legs beginning to jerk, without coordination, but with increasing speed and violence. A long dark spot on the front of her dress showed that in her distress her bladder had released. She could feel the release and the liquid spewing down, but in her agony no longer cared. He knew that she was now so far lost in suffering that he had nothing to worry about, and he let her go.

Now he could concern himself with easing her passing. As he climbed the ladder again he passed her body. She was now jeeking and vibrating violently, every muscle quivering as her legs spasmed and her chest heaved in futility. The dress had slid down a bit and one nipple, no longer erect, was fully visible. As she slowly spun he saw the noose biting the side of her neck, elongating it in a way it was never meant to stretch, the stretching tendons popping out of the skin, the veins pulsing as they tried to pump her blood past the merciless hempen grip. Tiny bubbles of foam slipped from her pink lips as bits of air, all too little to save her, slipped back and forth in her throat, and he heard a faint squeaking.

Above her, the hangman braced his arms on the beam and put one foot on her shoulder. It was just enough to steady her while he swung the other foot on her body. Then he released his full weight. The squeaking noise became a clicking ond and then stopped; her throat was sealed.

The last sight her eyes took in was the courtyard slowly rotating as she turned about, her green dress jerking as her body fought. Her hands twisted in their bonds, but could not pull free. Hands tied, neck squeezed, feet squirming in the air, she was completely helpless to influence her fate. Her anguish mounted and peaked: her last sensations were that of air swishing past her feet, of her neck twisting between his ankles. Then darkness ended her distress.

It did not end her body's struggles. The hangman could feel her body's fight through his feet. Her shoulders shook and heaved as her she fought in desperation, but with her throat tightly gripped, and his weight on her shoulders, her lungs were helpless. Beneath him he saw her red hair flying about as she thrashed, her pale breasts quivering with each powerful, desperate heave of her chest, a flurry of green as her legs flew about within her dress. For several minutes the hopeless struggle continued, as the noose remorselessly did its work. The hangman kept his station, like a spider perched above a fly.

Finally, her body stiffened. Now her legs and chest were simply vibrating; her muscles were starved of any air that would have given them more power. In a few moments, the hangman knew, she would be quivering in the last convulsive agonies of her death. He stepped back onto the ladder.

A group of townsmen passed by. From a distance, in the dim twilight, it looked as if she had already paid her price, and they shouted jests to the hangman about their having missed all the spectacle.

The hangman started: they had been just what he needed. Grabbing the rope just above her pale neck he swung her body onto the ladder. Her body quivered helplessly against his as he slashed the rope. One arm below her buttocks, another around her chest, and they slid down the ladder to the ground. She was warm in his arms, fully pressed against him, her head rolling back, wet gasping sounds in her open mouth, her pale breasts heaving beneath the green fabric, her whole body quivering and jerking against his.

The hangman got her body into his cart and snapped the reins. With the horse at a trot on cobblestones, the racket hid the sound of her gasping. More townsmen were visible, and they called jests as well; he took care to steer at a distance from them. He had what he wanted. A gallows with a fresh, severed, rope. People who, if anyone asked, had seen her lifeless body dangling as he prepared to take it down, and more who had seen her green dress as he drove her body to the paupers' mass grave outside the town. Yes, there were a dozen or more witnesses to the fact that the girl's young life had met its close on the rope.

He might be the King's first servant, but the hangman was still a bit of an outcast; his own home was outside the town ... on the way to the graveyard. This time he could stop short. It was hard getting her out of the cart. As the lifegiving air flooded back into her body, she was wracked with the same convulsions that the rope had wrenched from her. Finally he got her struggling body atop his shoulder and carried her inside. He put her down and, holding her on her side, cut the ropes that bound her hands. In his bed she continued the fight, legs kicking, arms clamped to her heaving chest, moaning as the air made its way back into her muscles. At length she lay still, breathing and moaning, still unconscious.

As he tidied her up -- no sense her awakening in clothing splattered with her urine -- the hangman made his plans. The King was always looking for servants in the smaller towns, where executioners' perks -- tips from a condemned looking for a quicker death, the victim's clothes, rings, and pocket money -- were smaller. Yes, a semi-retirement to a smaller town. A town where a certain red-haired lass would have no chance of being recognized again.

It was midnight before she awakened, and found herself in a warm bed instead of spinning above the pavement, warm compresses around her neck in place of a crushing ring of hemp.

Despite the pain in her throat, she could speak a few words.

"I had ... no idea ... it was like ... that."

"The pain?" he asked.

"And ... the pleasure."

The hangman smiled.

He was still smiling when the King's Archers crashed through the door, swords in hand.

I, the Royal Clerk Flaminbeau, do certify that the above is an authentic transcript of the account of the Royal Hangman and that, in accord with His Majesty's command, eight copies of this account were bound in red leather, one for His Majesty's bedchamber, one for that of Her Majesty the Queen, and six for the Royal mistresses.

The proceedings whereby the hangman was knighted as the Chevalier d'Vanois, and the cutpurse as Lady d'Vanois, upon the condition of their transmitting annually a written account of their deeds for the edification of His Majesty, is reflected in a separate roll.

 Your Majesty:

With this missive I report of another performance of our duties by myself and the Lady Vanois. I add in preface that we continue in the deepest gratitude to Your Majesty for having raised us to this station. Only last month I entertained a Swiss member of our calling, and he was deeply moved by the affection and favor shown us by Your Great Self. Indeed, he explained that in his nation the hangman, or should I say henker, is subject to all manner of oppression for doing his duty. Far from being appreciated, he is required to live outside the city walls, to sit in the last pew at church, and to avoid so much as brushing against the good citizens. I suggested that he relocate here, where our Gracious King considers those of our trade (dare I say art?) the First Servants of the Crown. But let me return to my tale.

The objects of our attention this day were a man and woman of their late 20s, both condemned as thieves. The magistrate privately suggested to me that the people of the town had a particular dislike for criminals of that type, and that I should make their deaths as humiliating as possible. I assured him that my lady and I could be depended upon.

In the morning, the prisoners were released to us. I bound the woman and my lady bound the man. We placed them in the cart, to be hauled away as if they were no more than refuse. They sat upon a plank thrust through the sides of the cart, and we tied them to it to ensure against flight.

As we approached the gallows, the crowd indeed reviled our victims. We could hear cries of "the noose in this world, hell in the next," "have a long dance, thieves," "stretch their necks, hangman," and the like. Our victims looked up at the gallows beam, about fifteen feet above the ground, and at the ladder resting on it, which they would shortly climb. The woman gasped, "it is so high!" She knew she would hang with her feet well above the crowd's heads, so that they would be looking up her dress as she spun and kicked. I replied "it's so you will have a better view!" The crowd within hearing laughed and cheered me.

We unlashed them from the plank and walked them to be base of the ladder. The woman's walk was shaky, and my lady had to steady her.

I turned the man so his back was to the ladder, and noosed him. With the rope firmly in hand I climbed the ladder, forcing him to follow me. When his head was close to the beam, I knotted the rope to it.

The man asked "let me finish my prayer," and the crowd began jeering that it was late to be getting religion. I loudly replied, "you can do that later," and shoved his shoulder, spinning him off the ladder. The crowd roared with appreciative laughter.

He spun around wildly at the end of his rope. His hands twisted as the rope strangled him. His legs flew in every direction as his body fought the agony of suffocation. The crowd laughed and began clapping in time with his kicking.

At length his body's swaying was reduced -- on this short a rope, it passes quickly -- and it moved only in response to his kicking. He tried to arch his back, his feet swinging backward, as he fought to suck air in. Then the kicking ended, he stomped downward, and his body became as straight and stiff as a board, all the muscles extending, his hands thrust straight out in front. I put a foot on his shoulder and gave him a slight push so that he rotated slowly.

As Your Majesty is aware, the peasant men cover their legs in tights, one for each leg, tied with strings at the waist. They cover their remaining nudity with a triangular breech clout of sorts, also tied at the waist. As he strangled, the bulge in his clout showed that his manhood was in its last erection. The women in the crowd laughed and jested. "He is well hung indeed!" "What's he going to do with it now?"

At that moment the clout, loosened by his kicking, fell free, and his hardened manhood stood in the open. The ladies grew silent, knowing what came next. And it did. As his stiffened body began its last shivering, he explosively spewed out his seed, spraying it with spurts in a circle. As is usual with a hanging, the last release of seed was almost superhuman, as if the body sought to resist death with its power of life. A woman shouted, "it's a bumper crop of mandrake this year, girls!"

Caught up with the spirit, I chanted to them

A man may cum when he cannot whistle
And shoot a load from his quivering pizzle

The crowd roared. I looked down at the female thief, so far beneath us. Her terrified gaze was fixed on her dying partner, and she looked as if she wondered whether I give her a similar shame.

The male thief's body stopped quivering then, and his hands came down from his chest. He was finished.

I returned to the ground, moved the ladder a few feet. My lady had already noosed the girl. "Your turn," I said, and put her back to the ladder. She dropped to her knees and threw up in terror.

We got her up again and I began to climb the ladder, towing her after me. It took time, since she resisted. I'd mount a stair, then haul on the rope. She'd feel her breath cut off, hold as long as she could, and then move her buttocks up one step to relieve the pressure on her neck. She was being hanged one step at a time, as foreplay to the final deed.

Finally I got her to the beam, and drew her up between my legs. As I tied the rope off her terrified shivering gave me the most delightful sensations. This time I did not spin her off at once. The crowd would get to watch her terrors for a time -- and I would get to feel her quivering. I could see over her shoulder as her breasts heaved with every breath, wondering if it would be her last. It was all in my hands, and she did not know the moment.

When she felt my hand on her shoulder she began to squeal, and the crowd hooted at her terror. Then I pushed and she was in the air.

She spun wildly. The noose had caught up beside her ear, terribly distorting and stretching her throat. Her hands clutched at the noose, leaving bloody tracks on her throat as she tried to get fingers under the tightening rope. He feet kicked in every direction, trying to find support, although her heels were eight or nine feet off the ground. She hooked one foot onto the ladder; I stepped down and pushed it off. then held her at a distance, waiting for the convulsions to begin.

They did. First her legs lifted up a bit and held there. Then they spread wide. Then they began scissoring at incredible speed. Her chest heaved, making her breasts bounce, but it could only make her wheeze a bit. Now the men of the crowd were appreciating the view as her skirt flipped about and her feet danced uncontrollably over their heads. Their eyes glittered at the sight.

The wheezing came faster as her convulsions became more violent. Her pelvis rocked forward and back as she kicked. I could see her face becoming a deeper blue as her agonies continued.

At last her legs rose up until the knees rested on her chest. The men were now treated to a sight of her full nudity as she quivered and swayed back and forth, saliva and foam flowing from the corner of her mouth. The men were transfixed, for she was a comely woman.

Again inspired, I called out

A lass may dance when she cannot sigh
And give us all a look at pussy and thigh

"Why, it's blue, too!" a man shouted, and the crowd laughed.

Now her legs went down and she moved in the opposite direction, arching her body backward with her heels rising up to her buttocks. The crowd had yet another view of her dying nakedness, and was appreciative.

I gave the crowd yet another thrill, calling out, "I forgot. The hangman has a right to a last kiss of forgiveness!" I chose to kiss her breasts, just as her chest heaved, which drew more laughter. The crowd was enjoying itself as she quivered in her final agonies.

At length, her legs sunk down a little, then jerked back up. The process repeated time after time as her body gave up its fight for life. Finally, she hung at length, the only sign of life being a heave of the chest, then another, and another. Then she, too, was done.

I had almost finished with the requested humiliation. I removed her dress -- my property as her hangman -- to leave her hanging in her shift, the blue flesh contrasting with the white cloth. She twitched a little as I did so, so perhaps some tiny bit of life remained even then, or perhaps even in dying she objected to the last indignity. They would left to hang until sunset, then cut down and carted off to paupers' graves.

hoping that this missive finds Your Majesty in good health, I remain your humble and obedient servant.

 I write Your Majesty in some embarassment. Indeed, nothing could move me to place hand to paper, save for the duty Your Majesty's father (may he rest in peace!) placed upon my own parents (may they rest so also!) when he ennobled our house and raised us above the rabble. Pursuant to that duty, to report on any exceptional execution of the law (and in particular, any exceptionally stirring execution of the law), I submit this missive.

I am embarassed only in that I must report a misadventure which, I hasten to assure Your Majesty, is not typical of my craft. My family has always taken pride in their work enforcing Your righteous decrees, and sought to carry out their duties with a sense of professionalism and skill. Unfortunately, even skill does not guarantee against fate. Dame Fortune is indeed a lady, and she shows or withdraws her favors at her whim.

On the 13th inst. I was summoned by the magistrates to carry out the sentence of death upon three persons convicted of clipping Your Majesty's coinage. Two were mother and daughter, the third was the mother's lover. I made the customary preparations, procuring coffins and the best rope, and lubricating the rope to ensure that it slid with ease. The gallows were of the older kind, meant for use with ladders, and perhaps twelve feet high. As it would be too high for me to reach from the cart, I hired a local lad as an assistant.

I visited the jail that night to prepare the victims for their ordeal. Mother and daughter were a comely pair, pale of complexion, somewhat taller than average, with jet black hair. I would estimate the mother to be in her mid forties, the daughter perhaps half that. The mother's lover was in the next cell. The daughter spent most of the time weeping, with her face in her mother's lap. The mother was more composed, although she too would break into tears from time to time. The lover seemed calm, even defiant, as I instructed them. Yes, it would be painful, but I would try to speed that as much as I could, and it would be over in minutes. Hair must be done up, best of all in a bonnet, to leave the throat clear so I could work quickly. Their legs might be uncertain when the time came, so they should sit until each was ready for the rope, and I would try to make it as fast as possible after that.

I arose before dawn and drove my cart to the jail. The magistrate was already there, and the victims' chains were being removed by a blacksmith. All were dressed in the best clothing they had. The mother wore a light blue dress, the daughter one of white cloth with much lace. Both had bustles and a pleasing exposure of pale cleavage. Like most victims, they desired to be as attractive as possible for their departure. They had heeded my counsel and their hair was done up in a bun, the mother's secured by a cap.

The weeping began again when I bound their hands. I followed my usual custom of binding them in front, so that they felt less helpless, but with the hands crossed at the wrist, so that they could do little to resist. I slipped a noose about the mother's neck and asked her to raise her hands. Then I wound the remaining rope, eight feet of stout hemp, around her waist. By the end she had broken down and was weeping. The daughter suddenly sat on the ground, back of her hands to her face, and wept uncontrollably. We had to lift her to her feet and hold her hands down to noose her. At that, she tried to hold her chin low. I had to slip the noose about her neck and force her chin up with my hand, then snug the rope in place before releasing my grip. I noticed that her pale, soft skin made a splendid contrast with the green coarseness of the hemp. The lover stood resolute, and was likewise noosed. We were ready to begin.

We helped them into the cart. I felt my own passions rising as I grasped the two ladies about the waist to lift them up. I could feel each shivering as I lifted. The three were seated upon their coffins and I took the reins.

When we turned the corner and the gallows came into view the weeping behind me rose in volume, and the daughter began to cry out in near hysteria. It had finally struck her that this was indeed her last journey, that in a few minutes she would be dangling and kicking from that very beam. After five or ten minutes of this we arrived at the hill, and the sheriff's men pushed back the crowd to allow us to enter. We could hear every possible emotion from the crowd. Some were muttering in sympathy, concerned that such attractive women were to end their days. Others were catcalling and hooting, asking how well they danced and whether they might show a little leg today.

As I pulled up beneath the beam, the daughter became hysterical. She stared at the beam and screamed "NO! NO! THIS CAN'T BE!" I stopped the horse, and it was time to begin to work quickly. My assistant was an amateur; he was still on the ground. I gestured for him to get up the ladder and into place. He sat astraddle the beam and humped himself over into position.

The lover would be prepared first, I called to him. I moved the felon to the center of the cart, right over the wheels, where rocking would not affect the rope's tightness, unwound the rope from his waist and handed it up. He started to tie it off and I had to hiss to make it tighter. You cannot tolerate slack with a cart; too much opportunity for a panicking victim to grab the noose and pull it loose. Finally he drew it up properly. Not so tight as to cut off breathing (yet), but not a bit of slack beyond that. The lover was not panicking, but one could tell from his pale face and shivering that he was controlling himself with difficulty.

Next came the mother. I helped her to stand. She was having difficulty and staggered a bit. I had to stand behind her and hold her with one hand as I passed the rope up. It was quite stimulating to be pressed against her; she shivered and her breath came in short, terrified gasps, not unlike those some lasses give at more pleasurable moments. I had to instruct my assistant to tie the rope off with no slack. When the noose was properly tightened her entire body gave way to a spasm of shivering and her breath turned to short moans of fear. She was now completely at the mercy of the rope, her hands bound and her neck tied to the beam, and she knew that only seconds remained before her suffering would begin.

I stepped over to the daughter, and as I did so the mother slumped down. The noose tightened, her breath became a squeak and she straightened up hastily. I could hear her faintly moaning "please, please, please."

The daughter would not stand. I told her she must, that she was merely prolonging her ordeal, but she was weeping madly and merely nodded her head no. The sheriff mounted the cart and we each took an arm and lifted her to her feet. I handed the rope up. I had to stop my assistant again; he was going to tie it to the beam so close to the mother's rope that the two would be kicking each other, a most unseemly spectacle. He moved it over a couple of feet so that each would dangle separately. At last we were ready.

I turned them all to face the front of the cart, so that the nooses would grab properly and seat at the back of their necks. Then I dismounted. Now there were only seconds to go before they would be swinging free. As I passed the side of the cart I saw the mother slump down again. She hung there, partially suspended, with her knees buckled under her, her breath again subsiding into wheezes and squeaking noises, as her terror-weakened legs scuffled and she tried to stand. In her panic, and unable to use her arms for balance, she was not successful, but thrashed about like a fish on a line, her legs scuffling and her body heaving as she tried to release the noose's grip. There was no sense righting her now; soon she would have nothing to stand on. By her side, the lover was visibly shivering, eyes clamped shut. A wet spot running down his trousers told how far he was lost in fear. On the other side, the daughter was still in hysterics, again crying "This can't be! Please!"

I drew the horse forward. He put his shoulder into the harness and the car lurched forward a foot. The mother and lover lost their footing and fell backward, the rope tight about their necks, their heels dragging on the cart. The daughter ... this, Your Majesty, is the source of my embarassment. The daughter turned, in her fright trying to keep up with the movement of the cart, and now facing its rear.

The horse took a full step, and the cart rolled two or three feet. Since carts of course are lower at the rear than at the front, the felons were closer to suspension. The mother and lover's heels were still dragging. Their hands snapped up to their chests as the rope bit into their necks. The daughter, though, was still stepping toward the rear. She went up onto her toes -- and the noose pulled around to the front of her neck!

The horse finally had the cart in full motion, and it slid out from under the three sufferers. I stopped and stepped back to appraise beginning of the execution, which in my experience is the key to the rest. The ropes had at least been kept taut, so they were swinging in narrow arcs, perhaps four feet on either side of the beam. All were experiencing the first anguish of their condemnation. The burning pain of the rope, the painful wrenching of the neck. The knowledge that they were fully conscious, helpless to breathe, that their pain would mount into agony as their bodies burned for air, that nothing would stop the ever-mounting pain, that their last sensation in life would be that agony. And most of all, the helplessness as their feet swung a short distance above the earth, their hands bound, their necks bearing their full weight, all who stood by refusing to aid.

The first to swing back was the mother. Her hanging looked to be going splendidly. The knot was securely at the back. Her head was bent forward, her hands clenched and held to her chest. Her lower legs kicked back once, giving her a bit of a wobble as she swung toward me and causing her blue gown to shimmer. She was grimmacing in pain from the bite of the rope, her fingers trying to lessen it.

The noose had not caught perfectly at the back of the neck, and was lower than I like it, but there was no sound of breathing, though her chest strove mightily to inhale, heaving again and again with force that made her nipples visible through her gown. Her fingers writhed in anguish as she rotated helplessly. Her legs squirmed, clamped tightly together, and then one twitched. The force made her body pivot on the noose, head to one side, body swinging to the other. Her toes swung through the air, reaching for the soil beneath them. She was in pain, but with her air cut off by the hemp, she would pass quickly, a few minutes of agony and struggle.

Next came the lover. He was also grimmacing, his body rigid and bent a bit backward. He would take longer, the men always do, but was also perfectly hung. The knot was seated at the back of his neck, his full weight upon his windpipe. He likewise fought for breath with no avail.

Finally came the daughter. And with her, my disgrace.

She was rotating rapidly -- one foot had come off the cart a little before the other -- and she was fighting. Her hands twisted in their bonds. Her feet flew out in every direction as she searched for a foothold, somewhere, as she swung a yard off the earth. The knot was just to the right of her chin, her head was flung back, and her neck seemed elongated and twisted to an impossible degree. I could hear her gasping and wheezing, fighting to move the air into and out of her lungs.

They swung away and then came back. Now the mother's body was straight; her toes stretched toward the ground and her shoes hung loose from her toes. As she swung back I noticed how stiff her body was; there was no sway to the legs or feet, as a limp body would have had, just pale feet stretched rigidly below the blue dress. Her hands were still clutched on her chest, and the fingers writhed in pain. The noose was doing its work, squeezing the life out of her helpless body.

The felon was hanging much the same, although I saw that his legs were beginning to jerk. The daughter was another matter. Her feet were flying out wildly. One caught the gallows post and increased her spin. Her hands wrenched and twisted, reaching out as if seeking to grab the post; with her head thrown back by the noose she could not see where it was, of course. Her hair had loosened and some swayed back and forth as she passed through the air.

Her chest heaved powerfully, fighting to pull in the air she needed. It would never be enough -- just sufficient to prolong her agony. From her throat came gasping, groaning sounds. Worst of all, in the midst of the groans her voice could be made out, gagging out frantically "down, down, cumme down!"

She swung away, feet still flying about in search of support, anything to take the appalling strain off her neck. On the next return, she missed the post but hit her mother with a knee and sent her spinning. The mother's legs were beginning to jerk slightly, pulling up a few inches and then thrusting down. The contortion of her face told me that she was still conscious and her lungs were beginning to burn, her limbs beginning to ache. I had no great worries about her; she would die in no more than the usual agony, which could not be avoided. It would be terrible for her, but her passage would end after some minutes of it.

The daughter was another case. She had worked the rope around her wrists loose enough to where she could turn one hand around and clutch at the noose, trying to reduce the limited grip it had on her windpipe. It was hopeless of course; a few fingertips could not offset her body's weight, and where the noose did have a grip it was a tight one, with the rope mostly buried in the flesh of her neck. Her struggling seemed to tighten the noose a bit; with one last groan of "down," her voice stopped and she devoted her entire effort to a frantic struggle to breathe, her chest heaving and loud wheezes coming from her throat. Bubbling saliva came foaming from her mouth.

Some of the crowd were talking about it, using words like "torture," and some unkind references to myself and my ancestors. Others were shouting angrily that I should do something.

If it had been in the good old days of the ladder, I would have mounted the beam, placed my feet on her shoulders, and speeded her passing by adding my weight to hers. Or I could have grabbed her ankles and pulled. But with the cart and these high gallows, her shoulders were full six or seven feet from the beam, and her feet barely a yard off the ground.

She swung back again. The wheezing moans and were becoming more rapid, the heaving of her chest faster and shallower, as her air supply fell and her body began to lose control. I rushed over, grasped her hips and reduced her swing, carefully staying behind her where her kicking was less of a risk. I locked my arms around her waist and pulled downward on her hips as best I could. It did a little good. The knot must have slipped tighter, because she no longer moaned; she needed every bit of air to stave off the agony that was slowly engulfing her. The only sound was now rapid wheezing, together with a rising gurgle as her saliva clogged what remained of her airway. Holding her like that, I could feel her body stiffen and seize. For a moment she arched backward, her stomach tightening, her calves hooking between my thighs as I pulled with all my might. Seized into this position, her body began to twitch over its entire span. Her hands snapped down and her fingers pinched my arms in an attempt to make me let go.

I let go, then leaped as high as I could and hooked my fingers over her shoulders. Now my full weight was added to hers. I thought I heard stretching, straining noises from her neck, although it might as easily have been from the rope. I hung to her like a spider gripping a fly. Her body continued to shudder as her aching muscles responded. Her breathing went from wheezes to clicking noises as air burst past the noose's grip, and then to a peculiar squeak, a sound like "eep! eep!" Then she began to kick and stomp wildly, her body jerking completely out of control.

That would have to suffice; her noose was set as well as it would ever be, and her weight would be enough to keep it from relaxing its grip. I let go. Now she could die alone in the air.

I fell back, and had a chance to check the other two victims. The mother was dying in the usual manner. Her face had relaxed, and I could hope she was unconscious as her body fought the rope. She was now decidedly out of air, and her body was frantically reacting to its lack. Her legs were scissoring back and forth, her bound hands snapping up and down. The blue dress made an elaborate contrast with her white shift as her ankles flew about. Her face was pale, turning faintly blue, and partially hidden by her loosened black hair. Her chest and belly heaved powerfully, trying to suck in air. It was of course hopeless. A hundred pounds or more was clamping her windpipe as she danced the dance of death.

A yard away her lover was doing the same dance. His legs were stomping up and down instead of scissoring, and his hands opened and closed as he held them at mid-chest level. All appeared to be going well. It was an agonizing death, of course, and a degrading one, but that was part of the work. Fewer will offend our laws if they know that a degrading death awaits them. One can retain some dignity while being beheaded, but none while dangling, kicking in agony. I may hope that some in the witnessing crowd resolved that day never to engage in cutting coins.

The crowd was now appeased, and were getting into a proper spirit, shouting "a nice jig!" "now for a breath of fresh air," and "loosen your collar a bit!" Others joined in with speculation about whether the women had thrashed about like this when in bed.

By now, the mother's thrashing was truly frantic, as her body fought its painful fate and her muscles responded to the burning pain of breathlessness. Her arms were jerking as best they could, her legs jerking back and forth, her chest heaving in rapid but useless spasms. Her pelvis swung to one side and then the other, making her wobble about as she hanged. Remarks about whether she had been like this with her lover began to multiply. Her struggles mounted in speed and violence as she slowly turned round and round and the crowd hooted at her movements. Soon her legs were scissoring so rapidly that they seemed a blur, as the noose squeezed the life out of her. "Is she dying, or coming?" someone shouted, and ribald laughter followed. I thought I saw her eyes peep open with a look of reproach at the crowd which was mocking her agonized struggles, so perhaps she was not unconscious after all.

Next to her the daughter suddenly stopped kicking as all her muscles locked up and she stretched out rigidly in the air, trembling as her muscles quivered, but no longer kicking. Only the trembling and the rapid, shallow, squeaking from her mouth showed that she still lived and fought for air. I could hope that she would pass quickly, but knew in my heart that her struggles were far from over. Doubtless she begged for the oblivion of death, but it would not be this easy. There were still considerable agonies to experience, and they would worsen by the second. Each second would seem like an hour to her, as time stretched out under the impetus of her pain. One minute without air -- who could stand it? Two or three or five? Her entire body must have been a mass of agony at this point, and she knew it would not stop but only worsen by the moment. The aching muscles of her legs were themselves refusing to obey. In her mind, each second slowly ground away, giving way only to more pain and hopelessness.

Her fingers slid down from the noose and instead clutched her bodice in helpless anguish. Then her hands suddenly pulled downward, ripping the bodice away. It hung in lacy shreds from her right hand and then fell as the fingers, too, began to spasm. Most of her breasts were visible now, their pale white darkening with blue. Her chest was in continual heaving now and their softness quivered before us all. The crowd grew silent, transfixed by the sight. One who cried "show us more!" was quickly silenced by angry gestures. She hung there, slowly turning, quivering in every muscle, her breasts shaking as the sound of "eep, eep, eep" burbled from her mouth, her long hair now loose and flowing down her back. Urine flowed from the front hem of her dress as she, like her mother, lost control even of that function in her helplessness.

Then her legs snapped up to her chest and held there. Her dress rode up with them. The view of her quivering boobies was replaced by one of still more intimate regions, displayed to all as she rotated, still quivering violently. If I may speak to Your Majesty as man to man, I felt my own body reacting, my manhood straining at my clothing, but knew that my embarassment would be masked by the fact that every man present was feeling the same sensations and none, in any event, were looking at me. The daughter was, well, let us say that the forest of her nether regions was not so thick as some, and we could see the cleft of her femininity as she turned.... but now I must leave off, lest I grow too distracted to write. I leave the rest to Your Majesty's imagination. I do recall that her thighs, too, were bluing as they shook and spasmed, although I was too warmed by the sights to recall the hues of her virginal canyon of bliss.

She hung there rotating for what seemed like an hour, and probably seemed like days to her, agonized as she was, air at her lips, yet with the rope's burning grip sealing it from her lungs. I cannot judge the real time -- half a minute? A quarter? She rotated perhaps four turns. I cannot judge it by her attempts to breath, for now the squeaking sounds were continuous and the chest heaving so rapidly that it seemed one continuous shuddering as she rotated with her intimate charms on display for all, hidden occasionally when her feet spasmed and shook, pointing at the ground.

Next to her, her mother was in the last convulsive agonies of death. She hung almost limp, her legs and feet twitching weakly as the muscles faded away. She reminded me of a puppet now, face bent forward, hands hanging down. Her lover still fought -- the men always last longer, I have noted -- but he, too, was slowing down.

The daughter's legs were now lowering by stages. They sunk down a few inches from her chest and held there, shivering, her feet twitching up and down. Then a few inches more. The noose's grip was squeezing the last bits of life from her young body. Finally they hung nearly limp. The squeaking from her throat subsided into gurgling as her ankles jerked back and forth.

It was almost done. The three hung helplessly as death took them. The mother's chest heaved twice more, and she was still. The lover's legs quivered for a bit, then stopped. Another last heave of his chest, and he stopped moving. The daughter alone moved, her lower legs snapping up against her thighs. Her breasts were now quite blue, one brown nipple excepted, the other still hidden by the white cloth. She made a last gurgling attempt to inhale, then let it out with a long moan. Her legs sank down, stopping as before, the muscles spasming as they gave up the battle for life. Her chest quivered, shaking her breasts, and then she was quiet. A pulsing in her neck -- for the arteries were well stretched and visible -- told that her heart was beating at a superhuman pace as it strove to keep off death even after the rest of her body had surrendered. After a minute or two the pulsing slowed and then halted. Her struggles were indeed finished.

The crowd stayed for a few minutes as the three hung. The mother's hair framed her face, now relaxed in death. The lover rotated slowly as his seed began to dry. The daughter, her head thrown back, hung with her mouth partially open, foam trickling from one corner. Their limp feet traced circles in the air a couple of feet above the ground they had longed to reach. The judgment of the law had been carried out.

I gave them another half hour to be certain, and then commenced the final degredation. As Your Majesty knows, the outer clothing of the condemned is the privilege of their executioner. I placed the ladder between daughter and mother and cut their hands free. Their arms now hung straight down, hands open, only the red streaks about the wrists to show where the rope had bound them and they had struggled to twist their hands free. Droplets of blood in their palms showed where they had driven their fingernails in during their agonies.

I removed the daughter's dress, unbottoning its back and slipping it from her shoulders as she dangled, leaving her clad in nothing but her undergarments. She looked different now, the width of her bustles and dress was replaced by a slender image. She hung almost bare, slowly rotating, her long legs no longer dancing but pointing to the ground she had been unable to reach.

She had a necklace, and I unfastened it from her neck, guiding it past the red streak on her neck where the noose had cut its deadly groove, and lifting it from a bit of drying foam which had trickled from her lips. The foam had a pink tinge, which stood out against her pale, blue, neck. The damage her dying hands had done to the dress would be easily repaired.

Next came the mother's gown; she was left in the same state, hanging limp in her slip, her face tilted helplessly forward, but relaxed from its agony. I saw the tiny pink spots which mark a hanging victim's face.

Finally, the lover's pants, which would need the laundry before I could sell them. Some giggles behind me told that some of the ladies had waited for that moment, as he hung there, his manhood in (dare I say) vigor mortis, a red cap atop a blue shaft.

As I placed the clothing in the cart, I paused for a moment to watch the three bodies, largely undressed, rotating slowly before what remained of the witnesses.

Three felons, turned by the law into marionettes dangling as if the puppeteer had tired and gone home. Then I began to back the cart and the coffins under them. My day was almost done.