The girl was tiny, frail and cold, her limbs looked like ice and he longingly wished he could place his second shirt over the poor girl’s head and make her warm.
He watched the curls of her hair, pulled back with a worn black strip of material, it was probably from an old sack, ripped from the greengrocers.
The girl saw him and smiled, an encouraging smile, telling him that it would be all right, and he would do fine. One of her front teeth was missing and she prodded the space with her tongue, he smiled, remembering his first years.
The girl was dressed in her Sunday best, which wasn’t much, he thought, but she looked proud, and he supposed he should too.
He scanned the crowd again, relishing every last look he had, every last breath he took, all the smells wafting his way.
He realised how selfish he had been in his reign, how conceited he must have seemed.
An old man was standing near the front, older than even lords could grow, his wrinkled skin spoke of years of toil and hardship, and once again guilt washed over the man.
The old man looked up from the piece of wood he was whittling with his knife and looked the man right in the eye, he gave a small nod, a sign of understanding between two men so close to death.
He looked to his right and saw a well-dressed woman, wrapped in layers upon layers of petticoats dab her eyes with a handkerchief, she looked one of the ugliest maidens he had ever seen, and he soaked it in, she saw him looking and burst into a fit of hysterical sobs, her shoulders heaving.
His gaze travelled to a strict looking gentleman in his fifties, he was wearing black, too, but that was normal for a Puritan of his status. The strict man was glaring at the singing men opposite him, too distracted by ‘sinful’ acts to realise his soon to be dead monarch was staring straight at him. This was probably a good thing because if the man’s steely glare had been swept upon him, he would have probably dropped stone dead before the executioner even raised that dreadful axe.
A group of three women stood haughtily staring at the man, as if it was entirely their fault that he was headed for the block. They wore simple dresses and held smart children to their chests. Charles wished he could see his own children’s faces.
A baby was sat on his father’s shoulders giggling, embracing all the new sights and sounds he was experiencing that cold day. Charles felt he was doing the same.
He wandered that if in death he would gain respect from the citizens of his country. He realised not.
Someone blew a trumpet and he stepped forward towards the block, his heart beating against his chest.
He stopped for a last look around at the crowd.
A hush had fallen over the crowd, even the laughing baby had been silenced.
The three women were pushing forward to get to the front, dragging children after them.
The strict man was now staring at the blade of the axe, as if willing it to get it over with, Charles wished the opposite.
To his right, the ugly woman had fainted and had had to be lain in a chair, enormous petticoats and all, Charles allowed himself a smile.
Straight ahead, the old man had finished his carving and brought it into vision.
Once again Charles found hope, and he turned his gaze to the little girl with the black ribbon.
The girl’s gap-toothed grin smashed his heart into a million pieces and built it again with linings of gold, he nodded to the girl, smiled, and stepped forward to address his country one last time.
