by Kevin Ashman
‘Open your hand,’ ordered the constable but Tom’s fist remained clenched at his side.
‘I can’t.’ stuttered Tom, his face recoiling from the glowing heat.
‘Open you hand,’ said the Constable again, ‘and face your trial.’
‘I can’t,’ said Tom again, ‘don’t make me do this.’
‘Thomas ap Iestyn,’ said the constable, ‘if you refuse a third time it will be seen as an admission of guilt and you will be hanged this day.’
Tom looked up as a voice called out across the square.
‘You can do it Tom, have faith in God.’
Another voice joined the first.
‘We are with you Tom, be strong.’
The crowd broke into shouting and Tom looked around at the surrounding villagers, surprised at the support.
‘Tom,’ shouted Fletcher from alongside the water barrel, ‘look at me. You can do this. Take the first step as you grasp the bar and run as fast as you can. Ten steps, Tom that’s all it is. You are a strong man, you can do this.’
Tom nodded and looked at the constable.
‘Thomas ap Iestyn,’ said the constable, ‘for the last time, hold out your hand.’
Slowly Tom’s arm came up and he unclenched his fist.
‘Ready?’ asked the constable.
Thomas nodded.
‘Then let the trial commence.’
‘The man holding the tongs dropped the bar into the open palm and as Tom took the first step forward, the crowd’s shouting was drowned out by his first scream of pain.
----
Up in the abbey Father Williams was sharing a jug of wine with Gerald of Essex. They were in the Abbot’s private rooms and a fire roared in the hearth.
‘So,’ said Father Williams, ‘I hear your wedding has been agreed.’
‘It is,’ said Gerald, ‘the ceremony will be held at my family’s chapel in Essex but we will return here soon after to manage my new estate.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said the Abbot. ‘I have to say that having a like-minded person in a position of power so close at hand has the potential to present many opportunities.’
‘I’m sure our mutual understandings will benefit us both,’ said Gerald.
‘And our arrangement?’
‘Has already been set in motion. You should start to see the results within days.’
‘Good,’ said the Abbot.
‘So,’ said Gerald, ‘did you manage to arrange that other little matter?’
‘I did,’ sighed the Abbot, ‘though it wasn’t easy as I had to go out of the area. Luckily circumstance provided the ideal candidate.’ He stood up and led Gerald through a side door. The room was sparse and in the corner was a single bed. On top of the bed a forlorn figure lay curled in a foetal position.
‘Stand up,’ said the Abbot quietly.
The unkempt woman stood but clutched the horse hair blanket about her to cover her nakedness.
Gerald smirked at the bruises on her face and the cut lip.
‘I assume you have already sampled the goods?’ asked Gerald.
‘Let’s just say she was a bit spirited,’ said the Abbot. ‘I think you will find her more than willing now.’
‘She will do,’ said Gerald. ‘What is your name, woman?’
‘Sian Buckley, Sir,’ she answered quietly. ‘Please don’t hurt me anymore, I will do whatever you ask.’
‘Yes, Sian Buckley, you will,’ said Gerald, ‘though I can’t promise not to hurt you.’
Father Williams left them alone and closed the door before stepping out into the corridor. It was no business of his and besides, it was almost time for morning prayers.
----
Despite the pain the first four steps seemed strong but then the agony kicked in and Thomas stumbled. The crowd gasped but he kept his feet and staggered forward.
‘Look at me,’ screamed Fletcher, ‘keep going, you can do it.’
Tom stumbled forward and fell to his knees in agony just before the line.
‘Get up,’ screamed the crowd and with one hand on the edge of the barrel, he hauled himself up and plunged the hand holding the bar into the water. Clouds of steam billowed from the barrel and Tom screamed again as the cold water was just as much a shock to his system as the heat had been. Fletcher grabbed him as he collapsed again and held him upright.
‘Well done, Tom,’ he said quietly, as the crowd cheered, ‘well done.’
‘Let me see,’ said Elspeth and gently pulled his arm from the water.
Tom gasped as his hand came out and Elspeth looked over at Garyn, trying desperately to conceal the horror on her face. The skin on his palm and fingers were burnt beyond all recognition and in places, the bones were exposed where chunks of flesh had come away when he dropped the bar. The smell of burnt meat was overpowering but despite the severe injuries, there was no bleeding as the heat had cauterised any damaged veins. Giant blisters were already starting to form all over the wound and the hand was deformed into the shape of a bird’s claw. Elspeth put it back in the water.
‘Keep it there as long as possible, Tom,’ she said, ‘the water needs to cool the injury. I will bring bandages.’
The Constable stepped forward.
‘You have earned my respect, Tom,’ he said, ‘I have seen this done three times when I was a young man and every time the accused failed to end his run. Get your hand bandaged and I’ll take you back to the abbey.’ He turned and started to disperse the crowd as Garyn turned to Fletcher.
‘Why?’ he asked, ‘why did you make him choose fire?’
‘It was the only sensible option,’ whispered Fletcher, ‘trial by water demanded he drown to prove his innocence while trial by combat would have seen him put against any champion Father Williams chose. He would have stood no chance against a Knight. At least this way he gains three more days.’
‘To what end?’ asked Garyn. ‘You saw his hand, there is no way it will heal in three days. All you have succeeded in doing is prolonging his death but in the meantime, administering suffering beyond belief.’
‘A lot can happen in three days,’ said Fletcher before walking over to speak to Tom, now curled up on the back of the cart. ‘Where are they keeping you, Tom?’
‘In one of the Monk’s cells in the abbey, he groaned.’
‘Which part?’
‘I know not the names of these places but I can see a courtyard through the bars on the door.’
‘You must be near the cloisters. Are you guarded?’
‘No but the door is locked.’
‘Who holds the keys?’
‘There is a servant who mans the gates. It is he who opens the door on each occasion I have been let out.’
Fletcher looked around as the Constable approached once more.
‘I know it hurts, Thomas,’ he said, ‘but dig deep inside, there are things afoot.’
‘What things?’ asked Tom.
‘Things I cannot share with you,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I will say this. I am tired of the injustice of this so called man of God and will not stand by while he takes another innocent life.’
‘Make haste,’ shouted the Constable, ‘I need to get him back to his cell.’
‘Stay strong, Tom,’ said Fletcher as Elspeth returned with the bandages, ‘I will not fail you.’
----
The remaining crowd looked on in concern as the cart rolled away to return to the abbey. Tom sat in the back, a picture of abject despair as the pain of his hand seared through his entire body.
‘Come,’ said Garyn,’ there is no more we can do here. I have a commission to finish at the forge and then some business to attend.’ As they walked out of the village they could see men working on an old house that had long fallen into disrepair. The faces were new to him and though Garyn would normally have walked by, he could see an anvil waiting to be unloaded from a cart.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Elspeth, ‘it seems the cart is laden with tools of a for
ge.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Garyn, ‘but I will find out.’ He walked over and hailed a man who was working on patching the roof.
‘A very good morning to you, Sir,’ he said, ‘I beg a few moments of your time.’
The man looked down and though he mumbled a few curses to himself, courtesy demanded he grant the request. He climbed down the ladder and faced the couple.
‘Good morning to you too, Sir, and indeed to you, my lady. What is it I can do for you?’
‘I am just interested in your task, Sir. I haven’t seen you here before and would make your acquaintance.’
‘My name is Iolo ap Hywel,’ said the man, ‘and hail from Senni not ten miles hence.’
‘I know of Senni,’ said Garyn, ‘and know a man called Hywel. He holds the role of blacksmith to the village there.’
‘Indeed he does, ‘said Iolo, ‘he is my father and I share his trade.’
Garyn’s brow lowered in concern and looked again at the blacksmith tools on the cart.
‘You confuse me, Sir,’ he said, ‘I see you are restoring the old mill but if I am correct, look set to start the business of blacksmith within the walls.’
‘I am indeed,’ said Iolo. ‘The village is without a blacksmith within its boundary and whilst this was indeed a surprise to me, it was an opportunity I eagerly seized upon when chance was presented. I will have my forge fired within the week so if there is anything you need, please call around.’
‘We already have a blacksmith here,’ snapped Elspeth, ‘it is situated not half a mile hence on the approach road from Builth. Why would we need another?’
‘I am an honest man, my lady and know not the politics of the Cadwallader estate. All I know is they sent invitation to my father to set up his business within the village boundary and it is a rare opportunity too good to miss.’
‘There is hardly enough work for one forge, let alone two,’ said Elspeth, ‘you will be taking the bread from another man’s table.’
‘My apologies,’ said Iolo, turning to Garyn as realisation dawned. ‘Are you Dafydd ap Thomas, son of Thomas Ruthin the blacksmith?’
‘He is,’ said Elspeth, ‘and it is our business you will be stealing.’
‘My apologies, Garyn,’ said Iolo, ‘my father respected your father very much and we would not have dared step foot in Brycheniog had we known you were still trading but we were informed you were about to go out of business and there was an opportunity here to be filled.’
‘Well you were told wrong,’ shouted Elspeth, ‘so pack up your cart and return to Senni. We run the blacksmith’s forge and will continue to do so. There is no place for you here.’
‘Elspeth, hold your tongue,’ said Garyn, ‘the fault does not lie with this man for he too has mouths to feed. The question must be asked of those who made the decision.’
‘You are right,’ said Iolo, ‘and while I squirm with embarrassment, I regret I cannot return for I have sold all my assets to make the move. There is no way back for me and I have to make this a success.’
‘The blame lies with others,’ said Garyn, ‘and I do not hold you responsible. There may yet be room for two as most of my trade comes from the Builth road and those I grew up alongside will no doubt still give me their trade.’
Iolo stared at Garyn silently.
‘Your gaze concerns me, Iolo,’ said Garyn, ‘what other news adds to this burden?’
‘Do you not know of the new road, Garyn?’
‘What new road?’
‘The Estate of Cadwallader has opened up land for travellers from Builth to head straight to the town. When done it will cut two miles off the journey.’
Garyn’s eyes narrowed.
‘But that’s impossible, they would have to cross the river and there is no ford.’
‘They create a new ford as we speak,’ said Iolo, ‘and it nears completion. Within weeks, the old road will be fenced off and returned to grazing with all new traffic directed via the new route.’
Elspeth’s hand flew to her mouth as she realised the implications. With a shorter route from Builth, not only would they have no passing trade but they would be isolated in the centre of their own lands with no public road anywhere near. Their business was doomed to failure.
‘Thank you for your honesty, Iolo,’ said Garyn eventually, ‘I wish you well.’ He turned to Elspeth. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there are things that need to be done.’
----
The rest of the walk home was travelled in silence as Garyn struggled with his thoughts. Finally they sat across their own table and Elspeth poured him a tankard of ale.
‘Do you think he speaks the truth?’ asked Elspeth eventually.
‘I see no reason for him to lie,’ said Garyn, ‘besides, I have seen the carts of stones being taken onto the manor fields with my own eyes. Obviously they are meant for the ford and to pave the wet parts of the approach. I fear my time as a blacksmith nears an end, Elspeth, and our future lies uncertain.’
‘Can we not set up elsewhere?’
‘With what? We have no money and most villages will already have a blacksmith.’
‘We have enough land, can we not turn to farming?’
‘I am no farmer, Elspeth and without funds, how am I to buy stock?’
‘What are we to do?’ asked Elspeth.
‘I don’t know but I think we need to seek audience with the Cadwalladers and press our concerns.’
‘And we will but first we will close the shutters on this cursed day. Tomorrow will be a new dawn and after a good night’s sleep, nothing will seem so bad.’ Together they sealed the house and locked the world outside but Garyn knew, he would get little sleep that night.
----
Tom Thatcher lay on a bunk in his cell, his hand still heavily bandaged. The Monks changed the dressing several times a day but if anything, it was getting worse and Tom knew there was no way it was going to heal. The pain was excruciating despite the potions given to him by the Monks and he lay on his back with his hand elevated and tied to a board.
The Abbott hadn’t visited him at all but he was allowed out three times a day to pray for salvation at the foot of the crucifix in the abbey itself. No visitors had come to see him and as it was the third night since the trial, he knew he had but a few hours left and would be hung as a murderer as soon as the sun rose.
Outside in the night, a storm battered the abbey and lightning flashes illuminated the grey stone walls for seconds at a time. Though he was tired he stood up and walked to the door, looking through the barred window at the sky above, determined to experience every last sensation he could before his life ended. Finally he returned to his bed and lay down, exhausted yet unable to sleep.
----
Within the perimeter walls of the abbey grounds, a Monk sat at a candle-lit desk writing laboriously in a journal. In a corner, a servant lay snoring loudly on his cot. The thunder outside was loud but the Monk looked up as sound of the hand bell echoed through the night.
‘Evans, wake up,’ said the Monk and the servant sat up, instantly awake.
‘I wasn’t sleeping, Brother Oliver,’ he said, ‘just resting.’
‘Of course,’ said the Monk. ‘Put on your cloak, it seems there are travellers at the gate.’
‘In this weather?’ said the servant. ‘What fool would be abroad in such a storm?’
‘All the more reason to find out,’ said Brother Oliver, ‘they may need our help. Come, we will see to their needs.’ The two men left the room and crouching against the rain, ran the few yards along the wall to the barred gate. Evans opened a small hatch in the door and peered outside.
‘Who goes there?’ he asked.
‘We seek sanctuary,’ came a voice, ‘shelter from the storm. Our horses bolted at the thunder and we find ourselves lost in the forest. The walls of God’s house were a welcome sight and we seek a roof until it passes.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Evans.
‘Simon of Builth,�
�� said the voice, ‘and my brother, Carwyn. We are traders with goods for Brycheniog but one of the horses fell lame and the night was upon us too soon. Can you shelter us we pray, if only for a few hours?’
‘How do I know you are not brigands?’ asked Evans.
‘I have no way of proving we are not, Sir,’ said the voice, ‘except my word as a gentleman.’
Evans closed the hatch and turned to the Monk.
‘What say you?’ he asked.
‘Let them in,’ said Brother Oliver, ‘we will turn away no man. Open the gate.’
Evans pulled back the bar and allowed the two hooded men through. As soon as they were in, one fell upon the Monk and forced him to the floor, holding a knife to his throat. Evans spun around and was about to call out the alarm when a fist smashed into his face, knocking him back against the wall. Within seconds he too had a knife held to his throat.
‘Silence,’ hissed the cloaked man, ‘and listen well. You will take me to the cell of Tom Thatcher immediately or that Monk will have his throat opened. Do you understand?’
Evans stared at his attacker. All he could see was the eyes as a hood covered the man’s head and a band of linen enveloped his mouth and nose.
‘Do you understand?’’ said the man again punching the servant in the stomach.
‘Yes,’ gasped Evans, ‘I understand.’
‘And don’t go getting any fancy ideas,’ said the attacker, ‘because if anything happens to me, or if you call out in any way, this Monk will die and you will go to hell as having caused the death of a holy man. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?’
Evans shook his head.
‘Good,’ said the attacker, ‘now let’s go.’
Evans led the man through the garden and unlocked one of the doors before heading down a corridor and out into the cloisters. Within minutes he unlocked a cell and the attacker whispered into the darkness.
‘Tom Thatcher, are you here?’
