The Reeve of Girion swayed in the breeze. Lewin ab Merrick’s legs twitched as the rope choked the last thread of life from his body. Eyes and bloodied tongue bulged from his skull, an expression of terror and agony frozen on his face. His left arm hung limp at his side, the other caught in the noose around his neck. Blood streaked from ragged lines where his fingernails had clawed at the coarse rope. A dark stain fouled his breeches as his bladder and bowels robbed him of dignity even before the sheriff’s man had kicked the stool from beneath him. The smell was already attracting flies.
The Weaver's Boy