The Chateau on the Lake by Charlotte Betts Page B

rolls slowly into view and halts at the foot of the scaffold. A guard wrenches open the door and King Louis descends while the crowd roars in delight.
    I see only a glimpse of his pale face before the executioners step forward to take off his coat. The king shrugs them off and calmly removes his own necktie and arranges his shirt to expose his neck. He’s slightly plump and looks disappointingly ordinary. The executioner ties his hands with a handkerchief and then the king slowly climbs the ladder to the scaffold while the drums throb and the crowd jeers and shrieks in a hideous cacophony.
    Once upon the platform King Louis crosses from one side to the other with a firm step and stares at the twenty or so drummers. They falter and one by one fall silent. The crowd, too, settles into an expectant hush. I hold my breath.
    The king throws wide his arms. ‘I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge,’ he declares in a clear, strong voice. ‘I pardon those who have occasioned my death and I pray to God that the blood you are about to shed may never be visited upon France.’
    Sudden tears spring to my eyes at his last-minute bravery but then there is a great bellow from a cavalry officer.
    ‘Beat the drums, damn you!’
    The drummers begin to pound furiously again and hoarse shouts come from the crowd.
    ‘Get on with it!’
    ‘Death to Citoyen Capet!’
    My mouth is dry as I watch the executioners grapple with the king and drag him under the blade of the guillotine. Suddenly I feel sick and my heart rattles rapidly behind my ribcage.
    Then I hear a swish and a thud as the blade falls.
    The king’s head is severed from his body and drops into the basket below.
    An artillery salute booms out over the square.
    The crowd roars in an orgy of excitement. ‘Long live the Republic!’
    It isn’t until this moment, this terrible moment when one of the executioners holds up the king’s head by his hair, that the true horror of what I have seen hits me with the force of a lump hammer. The youngest executioner dances around the scaffold, shrieking in glee and swinging the severed head so that drops of royal blood sprinkle the spectators, while with his other hand he makes obscene gestures.
    A woman standing next to me is jumping up and down, shrieking in delight. Turning aside, I vomit on to the ground.

Chapter 9
     
    All around me people are whistling, cheering and kissing each other. Trembling with shock, I wipe my mouth. Am I the only person in the crowd who is sickened by what has happened?
    A woman in a tricolour sash is standing next to me, watching. ‘Aren’t you pleased the king is dead, Citoyenne?’ Her eyes narrow as she questions me.
    ‘The sight of blood makes me ill,’ I say, but I can tell from her expression that she doubts me.
    ‘Now there will be freedom for everyone.’ She throws back her head and yells, ‘Death to the queen!’
    A handful of people take up her cry.
    She prods me with a grimy forefinger. ‘You… say it with me!’
    I open my mouth but can’t bring myself to shout the words.
    The woman grips my wrist, her nails digging into the skin. ‘Don’t you want the royal bitch to die?’ She frowns. ‘Who are you? You don’t speak like a citizen.’
    I spin on my heel, snatching my wrist from her grasp, and began to shove my way through the crowd.
    ‘Don’t let her escape!’ shouts the woman. ‘She’s a traitor to the Revolution!’
    Others take up the cry. ‘Traitor!’
    I scream as hands clutch at my clothing and snag my hair. Sheer terror gives me the strength to propel myself onwards. A man grabs my arm, but then the cannon fires again close by and he looks up to watch a cannonball fly in an arc across the grey sky above. I twist out of his grip and force my way through the multitude until I reach the edge of the square. Glancing back, I see the woman in the sash screaming and shaking her fist at me. Heart hammering, I duck down and weave away through the crowd, panic lending