by Barbara Kyle
2
English Justic
Carlos Valverde, the defendant in the fifth case beginning at the quarter sessions in Colchester, Essex, narrowed his gray eyes on the visiting circuit judge and channeled his intensity onto the man, willing his favor. Miraculously, it seemed to be working, because the thick-necked judge glared down from his bench at the opposing lawyer and said sternly, “Master Sydenham, this court has other pressing business. In view of the absence of the plaintiff, I must rule that—”
As though responding to the summons, a man pushed through the rear door and strode in to join the lawyer. Edward Sydenham respectfully addressed the bench. “Your Honor, here is my client, Lord Anthony Grenville. And we do beg pardon for the delay.” They both bowed and sat.
Carlos swallowed his deep disappointment. He was not surprised,though; he’d never believed in miracles. This was going to be war.
“Quiet in the court!” the bailiff shouted. Grenville’s entrance had caused a stir at the back of the room among the small crowd of observers, including a knot of family well-wishers who’d been congratulating the lady who had won the previous case. The family scuttled out. The remaining dozen or so people hushed.
Carlos was studying his opponent, Lord Grenville, a solid, florid man of about seventy, dressed richly but not fussily, with a thick mass of white hair and an impatient air of authority. Without a word to his lawyer, Grenville sat back and laced his fingers over his stomach as if to say, Let’s get this over with. It was the first time Carlos had seen Grenville, though the harassment had been going on for months through Grenville’s agents. Carlos had had to sell his warhorse and all his battle gear to pay the legal costs; there was nothing left except the land. He had even been considering taking a wife, some wealthy citizen’s plain-faced daughter; the plainer the woman, the bigger the dowry. Carlos had taken possession of the manor only four months ago, so his tenants’ rents weren’t due for another month, and God knew he’d needed cash these last weeks to pay Powys, the bloodsucking lawyer seated beside him. And to buy this fancy cloak, he thought wryly, looking down at the fox-Iined, black velvet folds that draped from his shoulders. The extravagant purchase had been a bid to appear the fine gentleman in court, as his new status as a landowner demanded, but underneath the cloak he wore his battered, quilted-Ieather jerkin and, as always, his scuffed riding boots. He could do very well without fancy clothes, but not without the land. The land was everything.
He shuffled his feet in the cold draught, pernicious as ground fog, and felt a familiar jab of pain in his right knee—the legacy of too many of his thirty years spent in the Emperor’s soggy bivouacs. English winters afflicted his knee the worst. Madre de Dios, he thought, how can a country be so cold and so wet at the same time?
“Thank you, Master Sydenham, we now have a plaintiff,” the judge said witheringly. “However, the question remains, do we have a defendant?” He looked hard at Carlos, then at the lawyer beside him, Powys, a reedy man with wispy gray hair, parchment-colored skin, and sour breath. “After all, Master Powys, I understand your client is an alien.”
Carlos stiffened. After six years in England he spoke the language well enough, but he feared a barrage of bewildering English common-Iaw terms. The law was terrain he had no experience in. It made him feel awkward, exposed. He hated that.
Powys stood. “With respect, Your Honor, my client was awarded denization five months ago along with the grant of the lordship of this manor, a deferred reward for his exemplary service in the King’s wars against the Scots. The affidavit from Chancery is before you.”
“Denization? Of a Spanish mercenary?” The judge was searching for the affidavit among his papers. “Most unusual.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but not without precedent,” Powys said. “One Alfonso Gamboa, colonel, received denization with his grant of the lordship, manor, and advowson of the rectory of Stanmer in Middlesex, in the year—”
“Quite, Master Powys,” the judge interrupted, holding up his hands, having found the document. “I said it was unusual, not impossible. I have no trouble accepting the veracity of this affidavit. And therefore the legitimacy of the defendant.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Powys sat.
The judge cast a look of skeptical appraisal at Carlos. “And how do you like it here, Master"—he glanced at his notes—"Master Valverde?”
Carlos offered a crooked smile. “It is cold, sir.”
The judge barked a laugh. “Well, I trust you will not find our justice cold.” He looked at his clerk for some appreciation of his wit and received the clerk’s insincere smile. Both lawyers also chuckled politely.
Carlos swiped a hand uneasily over his head, the hair close-cropped like boar bristles, then scratched his stubbled jaw. He had no envy for these soft, book-wise men, but they wielded the real command in this arena. He glanced at the two bailiff’s men who lounged, bored, against the wall near Sydenham, and he knew, with an uncomfortable conviction, that he had more in common with them. They were the brawn here, but not the power. The knot in his stomach tightened, a mixture of desperation and hope that had tormented him for weeks. Strange, because he’d faced far greater dangers on the battlefield and survived. But that was just it. He’d had enough of battlefields. And the tantalizing taste of luxury and status he’d been given—and, even more intoxicating, the power to build something permanent—had sharpened his hunger to hang on to what he had, no matter the cost.
“Now,” the judge said, suddenly all business. “The manor in question, known as—” He scanned his notes. “What’s its name, Master Powys?”
Powys jerked halfway to standing. “Prittlewell, Your Honor.” He sat and glanced at Carlos with a confident little smile that said: Our title deed is good. We’ll win.
“Prittlewell, yes,” the judge said. “In the borough of—” Powys jerked up again. “Rochford, Your Honor. By the sea.” And sat.
“And the manor is comprised of … ah, yes.” This time the judge had found the information in his notes. “Comprised of two hundred and ten acres of arable land and meadow,” he read aloud, “and one hundred and twenty of heath. A windmill and a horse mill. Twenty-one farming tenants, of which eight have freehold tenure and thirteen have leasehold tenure. The demesne, I see, is chiefly marshland.” He peered down at Carlos. “Good for livestock farming, that,” he said. He smiled. “And horses.”
Carlos liked this judge. They saw things the same way. After studying the fine horseflesh bred and raised on the marshes, Carlos had already planned to expand in that area. Horses, he knew.
“Well, then,” the judge said, “on to the matter of the plaintiff’s claim to the manor.” He looked hard at the opposing lawyer, Sydenham. So did Carlos. Something in Syden-ham’s bearing put Carlos on his guard. The man was past the vigor of youth, not strong-looking, not particularly fiery in aspect despite his red hair. In fact, the languid ease with which he sat, absently flicking a trace of dirt from his green satin sleeve, gave him a sheen of effeminacy. But Carlos sensed that it was, indeed, only a sheen.
The judge’s stern look deepened into something resembling contempt. “The plaintiff claims title to Prittlewell by authority of a writ from the Court of Augmentations. Is that correct?”
“The manor was part of the estate of the late Duke of Somerset, Your Honor,” Sydenham said. “It was forfeited to the Crown at Somerset’s attainder, then was deeded to my client in socage tenure.”
“Quite,” the judge sniffed. “Indeed, I note before me a paper drawn up by a clerk of that august body. However, this document”—he sneered the word as if he were dignifying a notorious whore with the title of “lady"—"bears no date, Master Sydenham.” He lifted the paper by a corner as if it gave off a foul odor. “It bears no witnesses’ signatures. It bears no description of the manor. It bears no description of the manor’s whereabouts. Can it, in all conscience, be called fit to bear this court’s scrutiny?”
Sydenham opened his mouth to speak.
&n
bsp; “Or even,” the judge boomed suddenly, “to bear our interest?”
The court hushed.
“I can only reiterate, Your Honor,” said Sydenham, “that the document does issue from Her Majesty’s Court of Augmentations at Westminster.”
“Master Sydenham, farts and belches also issue from the Court of Augmentations at Westminster, but I do not acknowledge them as jurisprudence!”
Sydenham looked down.
“Therefore …” the judge said, shoving the papers aside.
Carlos felt a ripple of hope. Was this victory? Wait, he told himself.
“… as I can find no claims outstanding against the defendant’s lordship of this manor …”
Madre de Dios, it is true. The judge is ruling in my favor!
“… and as I can see no other impediments to the defendant’s lordship of the manor—”
“I beg pardon, Your Honor,” Sydenham broke in. “But if it please the court, there is a witness I should like to call.”
The judge looked annoyed. “A witness?”
“I heartily concur with Your Honor’s astute appraisal of the writ,” Sydenham said. “It was presented by my predecessor, Lord Grenville’s former solicitor. However, new evidence has come to my attention that warrants this court’s notice.”
Carlos watched Sydenham in suspicion. The change of solicitors was true enough. Lord Grenville had got rid of the last one a few weeks ago, and this man Sydenham had stepped into the breach. But Carlos now had the uncomfortable feeling that Sydenham had just been waiting for his predecessor’s tactic to be played out before launching his own fresh assault.
Powys leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, I must protest. What need is there to drag in a witness when the plaintiff’s claim to the manor has been dismissed outright?”
Before the judge could respond, Sydenham spoke, fixing his pale blue eyes almost threateningly on the judge. “I humbly request that you allow me to proceed, Your Honor. Her Majesty Queen Mary, whose interest in seeing justice done throughout her realm has extended to Your Honor’s own exemplary appointment, would surely wish it.”
The judge cast a baleful eye on Sydenham. “Very well, sir,” he said. “In the interest of the Queen’s justice.” He sat back with a sigh that showed he was exasperated but willing. “Call your witness.”
The witness was a thin, stooped, bald man. He was sworn in. George Hoby, farmer, leasehold tenant on the manor of Dindale. Sydenham pointed out to the court that Dindale was adjacent to Prittlewell.
Powys frowned at Carlos and whispered, “What’s he here for?”
Carlos shrugged his ignorance.
Sydenham smiled at the witness. Hoby responded with a deferential nod. He did not look comfortable, but neither did he seem intimidated. “Master Hoby,” Sydenham began, “will you tell this court of your actions on the afternoon of October second of this year?”
Hoby cleared his throat. “Took a pig to market. Came home for dinner. Went to the beach with Susan.”
“And Susan is …?”
“My granddaughter. She’ll be six come Lamas Day.”
“And what occurred on your way to the beach?”
“Came upon the new lord of Prittlewell. The Spanish lord, yonder,” Hoby said, pointing at Carlos.
“Master Valverde,” Sydenham clarified for the court. “And what did Master Valverde say to you?”
“Not much. He were busy putting up a hedge fence. It cut off the path to the beach. He said Susan and me should take the other path, the one round Pollard’s hazel grove.”
“So the path he told you to take passes through Dindale, not through Prittlewell?” Sydenham emphasized.
“Aye. Past Pollard’s marsh. Path used to be all bog, but the Spanish lord’s drained it all thereabouts for horse pasture. He said the path through Pollard’s were a fair route now. Quicker, too, he said. So Susan and me, we went round that way.”
“Now, Master Hoby, how long have you been accustomed to using the first path, the path through Prittlewell, to get to the beach?”
“Oh, time out of mind.” Hoby pulled his ear, thinking. “At Susan’s age I stumped along it with my grandfar’s pa.”
Sydenham turned to the judge. “In point of fact, Your Honor, Master Hoby’s family has enjoyed ancient, customaryrights of access to the beach via the path through Prittlewell. Master Hoby’s ancestor, one Cuthbert Hoby, was verderer of the Dindale and Prittlewell forests during the reign of King Henry the Fourth. In recognition of Cuthbert Hoby’s service in saving the King’s life, the King granted the post of verderer to Hoby’s direct descendants in perpetuity.”
“Saving the King’s life?” the judge asked, intrigued.
“I believe the circumstance was an attack from a boar, Your Honor,” Sydenham explained. “I have here an affidavit setting forth the particulars"—he glanced up and added smoothly—"dated and witnessed.”
The judge perused the affidavit and appeared satisfied. “But, Master Sydenham, what has this event of some hundred and fifty years ago to do with the case before this court?”
“Your Honor, for many generations the residents of Dindale have taken the path through Prittlewell to collect sand.”
“Sand?” The judge turned to Hoby. “Is that what you were after that day? Sand?”
“Oh, aye, Your Worship.”
“For what purpose?”
“Susan’s rabbit hutch. She’s a good girl with rabbits, our Susan is,” Hoby added proudly.
“But Master Valverde stopped you, did he not?” Sydenham said, bringing Hoby’s attention back to the important fact.
“Aye. Pointed out the other path. ‘Twere quicker, too, just like he said.”
“But he did impede you from taking the customary path,” Sydenham emphasized sternly.
Hoby shrugged. “Aye.”
Carlos threw Powys a look of concern. What was all this about? But Powys ignored him, frowning in concentration as he followed Sydenham’s line of questioning.
“Now, Master Hoby,” Sydenham went on. “Yesterday you made a formal complaint to Master Valverde about this matter, did you not?”
“Aye.”
“Would you tell the court?”
“He were in the alehouse. I told him he should not have"—he paused to find the word—"impeded me from taking the path.”
Powys frowned at Carlos. “You didn’t tell me this,” he whispered. Carlos bristled. Was he supposed to run to a lawyer every time an old man spoke nonsense in an alehouse? “Well,” Powys growled, “Sydenham sent him to complain. I can smell it.”
Sydenham continued his questioning. “And was there a witness when you made your complaint?”
“Aye. My neighbor, Roger Pollard.”
“And what answer did Master Valverde give?”
“He said ‘twere easier both for his pasture and my Susan if we used the other path.”
“So he refused to redress the wrong he had done you?”
Hoby appeared reluctant to go so far. But he grunted, “Aye.”
Sydenham told Hoby he was excused. Hoby walked away, touching his cap to Lord Grenville. Sydenham lifted a heavy volume and began to read aloud. The language was Norman French. Carlos could follow none of it. “What’s he saying?” he whispered.
“An ancient statute,” Powys murmured. “Basically, if a landlord impedes the progress of a verderer of the Crown’s forest through a customary right of way, and if, after receiving complaint by the offended party, the landlord willfully continues to impede, the landlord shall forfeit his property to the Crown.”
Carlos understood imperfectly this rush of English words against Sydenham’s droning in French. But one word hit him like a cannon shot. Forfeit.
“But Master Sydenham,” the judge said with a frown, “there has not been forest in Dindale for over fifty years. And the witness has just told us the child only wanted sand for a rabbit hutch.”
Sydenham put down the volume. “Your Honor, Master Hoby and his family, as direct
descendants of Cuthbert Hoby, hold the rights of verderers of the Crown. And a verderer, as you know, is responsible for maintaining order in all manner of trespasses of the forest, of vert and venison.”
The point dawned on the judge. “And rabbits,” he acknowledged grudgingly.
“Brilliant,” Powys murmured in spite of himself.
Carlos glared at his lawyer. “Do something,” he whispered fiercely.
The admonition seemed to rouse Powys. He stood suddenly. “Your Honor, I must vehemently protest this abuse of court procedure. Earlier, the plaintiff was claiming with his writ that my client did not legally own the manor. Now, suddenly, he claims that my client does own the manor but must forfeit it. This shift in parameters of the case is insupportable!”
“But,” Sydenham quickly spoke up, “Your Honor wisely saw fit to discredit the former parameters because of the flawed writ.”
The judge frowned. “Still, Master Powys has a point that—”
“Your Honor,” Sydenham interrupted smoothly. He lifted a paper. “I have a writ of mandamus to present.”
“Good God,” Powys whispered in amazement. Wide-eyed, he turned to Carlos. “Mandamus. From the Queen’s own hand.”
“I trust Your Honor will find it satisfactory in execution,” Sydenham said, giving the Queen’s writ, and the volume whose statute he had cited, to the clerk. The clerk carried them to the judge. The judge took the paper and looked at the Queen’s handwriting with unabashed awe. “This writ,” Sydenham went on, “gives title to my client, Lord Anthony Grenville, of all land forfeited to the Crown in this shire. By the events you have just heard related, the manor of Prittlewell is forfeit. It must therefore become the property of my client.”
The judge stared at the evidence, clearly daunted. The court waited. Carlos’s heart thudded in his chest. Something terrible had occurred, but what? The sick feeling of panic was alien to him, disorienting. He sensed only that he had taken a fatal blow. And that the lawyer, Sydenham, had delivered it.
The judge sighed deeply. His shoulders sagged. He put down the paper and sat back, a man rendered powerless.
