The First Performance

James sat on a low wooden stool, trying to look confident. If he looked nervous, William - or worse yet, Father - would think less of him. Mother, before she died, told him that that the best thing for nerves was a smile. Smiling could trick the heart into believing what the head would not. Father’s suggestion was to guzzle the largest flagon of mead one could find. None of these tricks seemed to be working now though. The smile felt forced and the mead sat heavy in his gut. His leather gherkin felt too tight. His gloves felt too loose and his boots, which he had borrowed from his father and stuffed with straw to make them fit, were somehow both too tight and too loose.

“Breathe, James, breathe”, he repeated quietly to himself melodically. A chant, much like the Latin chants he’d heard behind the walls at the abbey where his family used to trade venison for honey. Things were better then, before Mother got the pox and passed. Before King Henry took the throne and taxed their farm out of existence and “graced” his family with another profession.

James was alone in a small dark room which smelled strongly of animals and sawdust. Sunlight streamed in through large cracks between the boards and holes cut into the walls at irregular intervals. The floor was covered in straw, with the occasional pile of manure roughly pushed to the side of the room. There were a few wooden stools and a small roughhewn table holding a dented metal water bowl and a hunk of bread.

He heard the roaring of a crowd from outside, intermittently punctuated with boos and laughter. He had arrived before the bulk of the attendees, but it sounded like a big group today. The crowds seemed to grow larger every Saturday. His friend Robert says the King likes a spectacle and these festivities distract everyone from their hunger and the fact that the tax rate has tripled during his reign. James was not certain, and it felt treasonous to speculate.

James was suddenly uncomfortably hot. He reached up and pulled off his leather mask, his face wet with perspiration. As he did so, the door swung open and William entered the room. William was James’ older brother, three years his senior but so much larger, he looked to have come from different stock entirely. William was the image of their father as a young man - broad shoulders, sturdy jaw, confident. James more resembled their mother in both appearance and disposition.

William pulled off his mask and gloves, then ambled to the metal water bowl, rinsed his hands, and splashed water on his face. He started toward the stool opposite James but doubled back and grabbed the hunk of break off the table. He tore off a large chunk with his teeth and threw the remaining bread back onto the table. It bounced and landed in the dirty straw. Chewing with his mouth wide open, William now resumed his path towards the stool nearest James. He sat down hard, the stool groaning under his bulk.

After a minute of loud smacking, James looked at his brother and asked, “How is it out there? A lot of people come today?”

William, spitting bread as he spoke, replied, “It’s hot as Hades today and it looks to be a full house. They even built up some wooden risers so more people could get a better view from way in the back.”

James kicked at a beetle in the straw and avoided William’s eyes.

“James, it’s fine to be nervous. I was too my first time out there, but you will get the feel for it and everything will seem as if it were meant to be. You will learn to love the roar of the crowds. I know you will be fine because you and me both come from Dad and no one is better at this than him. It’s in your blood.”

James smiled back approvingly, though he was not sure if he was tricking himself or if the belief was real.

The crowd erupted in a particularly loud and extended roar. William smiled, “That’s Dad. See, I told you he was the best. Ain’t nobody better.”

“Well, maybe you will be one day.” William winked at James.

James knew this was intended to be comforting, that William was trying to help. He loved his brother, but his sweaty wink, coupled with breadcrumbs falling from his mouth as he spoke, disgusted him. Not for the first time, James wondered if he truly was his father’s son. How could he be so dissimilar to the other men in his family.

The two men sat in darkened silence, listening to the music of the crowd. Loud then quiet, then loud again, with laughter and boos forming the percussion in this symphony. William sat, visibly exhausted from his performance; a small satisfied smile played about his lips. James, however, could not stop moving and concentrated hard on keeping his lunch down.

Without warning, the door swung open and a mountain of a man stood in the open doorway. James noted a familiar aroma of sweat mixed with saw dust, coupled with a metallic tang he could taste in the back of his throat. Like William, James’ father removed his mask and gloves, then walked to the dented water bowl, first rinsing his hands then splashing water on himself. He looked down at the hunk of bread in the dirty straw, hesitated for a moment, then reached for it and bit off a huge chunk. He took the remainder of the bread and sat down on the stool between James and William, patting William roughly on the back as he passed.

He grabbed James’ knee uncomfortably hard with a calloused wet hand and said, “It’s time, son. I know you are nervous, but you’ve practiced at home hundreds of times. You can do this.”

James thought back to practicing at home, his audience a donkey and three sheep. This experience did not make him feel prepared.

James’ father was not an emotional man, but James noticed an unfamiliar expression on his face as his eyes glistened in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the cracks. “You are just like your mother, God rest her soul, but you are my son too and I know you have the same spark that runs through William and me. You were meant for this.”

James then felt himself stand. He wasn’t certain, but it didn’t seem to be his own will powering him. Maybe his father’s strength channeled through that calloused hand into his knee enabled him to rise.

He took one last look at his father and brother, then slipped his mask back onto his face. It was a tight fit, as both the leather mask and his face were dripping with perspiration. After a brief struggle, and some unwelcome chuckling from his brother, he affixed the mask and walked towards the door. James stopped to stretch his back before the crowds saw him, then opened the low door and stepped out into the bright sunshine.

He turned to his immediate left and selected his axe. It was a bit smaller than the others, “Better to start small and work your way up to the bigger, more impressive blades,” his father had previously advised. It should have been clean, but he noticed a rusty reddish-brown stain in the center of the blade and another darker stain at the base of the handle. Too late to do anything about that now, he had to press on. The people were still calling for blood and there were a dozen traitors to execute before the day was out.

The crowd was the largest he had ever seen, and they cheered loudly when they laid eyes on him, the Executioner, the Star of the Show. James felt the sickness in his stomach shift to excitement. He looked up at the stage and saw three condemned men, their heads covered in black cloth, waiting for him. They did not appear to struggle and seemed resigned to their fates. With every step he took toward the stage, he felt more confident, more ready to do the job his family was conscripted to do.

A small bit of James - the quiet part, the part that liked to sneak into the abbey and read books, the part that deliberately missed the young does with his arrows in the spring hunts - grew sad and quiet. This part had prayed he would never grow accustomed to this work. This part, his mother’s part, was losing the battle and ultimately losing its voice altogether. The condemned may not be the only ones silenced today.