The poet stood on the edge of the scaffold and raised his hands. The crowd murmured and fell silent.

‘Hey, people,’ called Dandelion. ‘What cheer? How go you?’

‘Ah, muddling along,’ muttered someone, after a long silence, in a row towards the back.

‘That’s good,’ the poet nodded. ‘I’m greatly content. Well, now we may begin.’

‘Master executioner,’ the funereal one said with artificial emphasis. ‘Do your duty!’

The executioner went closer, kneeled down before the condemned man in keeping with the ancient custom, and lowered his hooded head.

‘Forgive me, good fellow,’ he requested gravely.

‘Me?’ asked Dandelion in astonishment. ‘Forgive you?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ll never forgive you. Why should I? Have you heard him, the prankster! He’s about to cut my head off, and I’m supposed to forgive him? Are you mocking me or what? At a time like this?’

‘How can you, sir?’ asked the executioner, saddened. ‘For there’s a law… And a custom… The condemned man must forgive the executioner in advance. Good sir! Expunge my guilt, absolve my sin…’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘I won’t behead him,’ the executioner declared gloomily, getting up from his knees. ‘He must forgive me, otherwise there’s nothing doing.’

‘Lord Viscount.’ The funereal clerk caught Dandelion by the elbow. ‘Don’t make things difficult. People have gathered, they’re waiting… Forgive him. He’s asking politely, isn’t he?’

‘I won’t forgive him, and that’s that!’

‘Master executioner!’ The funereal man approached the executioner. ‘Chop off his head without being forgiven, eh? I’ll see you right…’

Without a word, the executioner held out a hand as large as a frying pan. The funereal man sighed, reached into a pouch and tipped some coins out into his hand. The executioner looked at them for a while, then clenched his fist. The eyes in the slits of his hood flashed malevolently.

‘Very well,’ he said, putting the money away and turning towards the poet. ‘Kneel down then, Mr Stubborn. Put your head on the block, Mr Spiteful. I can also be spiteful, if I want to. I’ll take two blows to behead you. Three, if I’m lucky.’

‘I absolve you!’ howled Dandelion. ‘I forgive you!’

‘Thank you.’

‘Since he’s forgiven you,’ said the funereal clerk gloomily, ‘give me back my money.’

The executioner turned around and raised the axe.

‘Step aside, noble sir,’ he said forebodingly in a dull voice. ‘Don’t get in the way of the tool. For where heads are being chopped off, if you get too close you might lose an ear.’

The clerk stepped back suddenly and almost fell off the scaffold.

‘Like this?’ Dandelion kneeled down and stretched his neck on the block. ‘Master? Hey, master?’

‘What?’

‘You were joking, weren’t you? You’ll behead me with one blow? With one swing? Well?’

The executioner’s eyes flashed.

‘Let it be a surprise,’ he snapped portentously.

The crowd suddenly swayed, yielding before a rider bursting into the square on a foaming horse.