Page 66 of Dancing On Air

He had lived years repulsed by his father and his actions. So many times he had judged the man, thinking he was a cruel, cold-hearted bastard to take so many lives. Now he realized he’d misjudged his father, because Connor was in the exact position and knew how awful it felt.

He strapped on his belt with his dagger, seeing his father’s executioner sword. His hand shook as he reached out for it. Now that he was the executioner, he was required to carry it. It didn’t feel good or right, and he lowered his hand without it. Tomorrow he might need to bring it, but today, he wanted nothing to do with it.

Connor threw his cloak over his shoulders. Leaving the cottage, his eyes fell on the graves of his father and sister. Slowly, he made his way over to them, missing them dearly. He also missed his mother. How many more people in his life were going to die? How much more hell could he take before he went insane?

He walked over to the grave of his father, folding his hands in front of him, praying out loud. “Father,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry for your death. I’m also sorry that I despised you for being the hangman. I realize now you never wanted to do it. But you also didn’t want to leave your children as orphans. I understand that and I forgive you.”

He wiped a tear from his eye and turned to go, then stopped and walked back to the grave. “I don’t want Eleanor to think less of me for what I have to do tomorrow. Then again, I don’t want to kill the lad at all. But if I don’t, they’ll make Leoric do it. You know as well as I, that it would kill him. He’s still affected badly by what happened yesterday. Bid the devil, I don’t know what to do.”

Connor suddenly felt just like his father, needing a drink of whisky. Unfortunately, he had finished it all last night. He hurried to the stable and mounted the horse, making his way to the tavern on the less reputable side of town.

“Connor,” said one of the regular whores as he made his way into the tavern. She followed on his heels. “If you’re looking for some fun, I’m available.”

“Not tonight, Daisy,” he told her, taking a seat at the drink board. “Whisky,” he told the bar keep. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there drinking before he recognized a man who sat down next to him. It was Tom the butcher. He looked like hell and as if he’d had more to drink than Connor.

“Tom,” said Connor, causing the man to look up.

“Hangman,” said Tom, staring down at his drink.

“I don’t see you in here too often.” Connor picked up his cup and took a drink.

“I had nowhere else to go. The missus is crying and I feel like it’s all my fault.”

“What happened? What are you talking about?” asked Connor.

“I’m the one who said I didn’t want Finnian living with us anymore. If I had shown the boy a little love, or even more attention, mayhap he wouldn’t be getting executed tomorrow.”

“Oh, that,” said Connor, feeling even worse now.

“Can you talk your father out of killing my son?” asked Tom. “I can pay you a little, but I don’t have a lot of money since I’ve had to bribe so many shopkeepers to keep them from turning Finnian over to the authorities. Now none of that seems to have mattered.”

“My father is dead,” said Connor, finishing off his drink.

“Then… you are the one executing my son tomorrow?” Connor saw such sadness in the man’s eyes like he’d never seen before.

“Don’t think I like this damned job,” said Connor, laying money on the drink board and getting up to leave. “Buy Tom a drink. On me,” he told the barkeep, throwing down another coin.

He turned to leave, and when he did, Tom’s fist labeled him in the jaw. Connor stumbled and had to catch himself on a stool to keep from falling. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He used the back of his hand to wipe it away.

“There’s going to be a fight,” called out one of the drunks.

Suddenly, everyone in the tavern ran over and crowded around, placing bets on who would win.

“Tom, you know you could be arrested for attacking an executioner.” Connor was ready to punch him back, but tried hard to restrain himself.

“Good,” said Tom, raising his fists, wanting to fight. “Then you can hang me along with my son tomorrow. You can kill us both. You’d like that, you bastard, wouldn’t you?”

It took all Connor’s control not to hit the man just to shut him up. But he knew how Tom was feeling. He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to kill the one who would take his son’s life. Without saying another word, Connor turned and left the tavern, going home to drown in his misery by himself.