As the hour for the priests’ execution approached, the press of people heading for Gallows Hill grew denser and more impatient. Jayne Swift had expected crowds, but not such a multitude as this. It seemed every Puritan in Dorset had come to gloat at the spectacle of Catholics being hanged, drawn and quartered, because there wasn’t a road or street in Dorchester that wasn’t thronged with hard-faced men and women, their eyes aglitter in anticipation of papist blood being spilt.
Jayne’s only means of making headway against the tide was to stay close to the fronts of houses and try to move forward each time there was a gap, but she was attracting unwelcome attention by doing so. She made the decision to retreat into a doorway and wait for the crush to subside after a man rounded on her angrily for knocking against him. She raised her hands in apology, but the suspicion in his eyes as he studied her gown alarmed her. She lowered her head submissively to prevent confrontation, and sighed with relief when his wife and the flow of humanity carried him on towards Gallows Hill…
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