The King is Dead

The king was beheaded today. Charles I former king of England was separated from his head. A single swipe of the executioner's ax. Witnesses on the platform included the king's surgeon and his chaplain, who was yours truly.

No members of the new ruling family or their representatives were there. Oliver Cromwell the expected titular head of the Rump had no comment concerning the execution. Members of the king's family were not present, expecting themselves to receive the same death blow.

His Excellency was predictable. He maintained his royal composure even with his head on the block. This is the report of the happenings on the stand, leading up to the king's execution. I was there acting as the king's chaplain and the people's informer. Heed these words as true and accurate as well as complete.

The king and I walked the ramp from the prison door to the stand. The length was 68 paces and no conversation was initiated. The king's silence was honored. Joining us at the stand was the surgeon and the executioner. The king saw but did not accept them into his consult. They represented the finality that he was not ready to see. I on the other hand, had been in Charles' consult for the last several days. He was not ready to accept the verdict.

There had been no trial and the evidence against him was his rule as king. Never before had a king or queen been accused of any crimes; now we have crimes worthy of a beheading. These were special times and not even the king was safe from those intent to bring a new rule to England. Alas, this is not my burden. I am a man of God, a priest in the King's church and his personal chaplain. My duty is with God and my sovereign, at least until he has left this world. This is my report.

We stood beside the box that would be the receptacle of the king's head. With me, was of course, the king, then the surgeon, and the executioner. The latter was a large man with thick muscular arms connected to a trunk which revealed no neck. His head appeared to be placed on the top of this enormous trunk. Supporting the edifice were two stumps each appearing twice the size of a common man's waist. A beast of a man. He wore a mask which barely hid the features of his face. But he need not worry, he would not be recognized by the placement of his eyes, ears or any other facial feature, his body reveals his trade.

The surgeon had no features. Only the least favorable of his profession would find them self in his position. Pride long lost, he does not hide his face. As for me, you know all I am willing to say.

The king turned to the executioner and asked, "Will my hair be in the way?" The executioner replied that it indeed would be, ending his affirmation by saying, "My sovereign." The king asked for assistance in tying it up into his hat and the tree sized man obliged. Then the two of them attempted to tuck and push the royal locks into a crown like cap.

The surgeon pulled a mask from his waistcoat and offered it to the king. The king stood away, but the surgeon followed still proffering the hood, finally the king took it, and held it in his hand. He then asked the executioner if he could do it in one "swell swoop." The executioner replied that he would try, saying: "If it would please you, my sovereign."

The surgeon then said, "You are leaving temporal life and entering ethereal life." The king replied, "Yes, I had done what I had done." He turned to the executioner and said, "When I hold my hands like this (spreading both out like the wings of a swan) you can do your duty." "Whatever you wish, my sire," said the executioner.

The king knelt down, throwing the hands of the surgeon away he turned to me and said, "Is this how it is done?" I shook my head, not really knowing what he meant, and I had never been to an execution before. How would I know if he was doing it right or not? The king accepted my nod and folded his hands as in prayer, I knelt down with him and began to pray as well.

He looked at me and I thought there was just a small tear in his eye. "Is God waiting?" he asked. I replied that indeed God was waiting. "Stand away and let me be and keep that smelly surgeon off of me." I stood up and backed away taking the surgeon with me. Now just the king and the executioner remained on the block.

Any last words were lost in the wooden block that now cradled the King of England's head.

The axe was mighty, sharpened with a fine hone, the blade glistened. It exuded pride of the owner. The owner of the axe, the executioner, raised it over his head and paused. Then it started it murderous journey downward. The assembled crowd collectively gasped, never before had a monarch been executed. The king's head rolled off in one swell swoop.

The axe man bent down and caught the rolling head. He held it up for all the crowd to see. There was much cheering and applause. The man bowed. The head was quivering, hair still tucked into the cap, but the stare was vacant. A cadre walked up on the platform unabated. They wrapped the king's remains in a purple cloth. Other's took the head and properly tarred it for display on the bridge.

The crowd left, leaving England with no king. I walked home.