“That Enoch Angus Boggs?” Her voice was properly horrified. “He must have lied like the Devil to get his favor.”
I hurried on. “Aye, that he did, and he’s determined to take the whole of Wanthwaite. He is on his way here now.”
The ease we’d begun to enjoy vanished instantly. Dame Margery stiffened; her voice again took on the wobbly fear it had had at first. “The Scots be coming? Oh, my dear honey-pot, where can ye hide this time?”
“I’m not going to hide,” and my voice was hard, “for I have a plan if you’ll help me.”
“Anything! Anything!”
The dame cautioned me to say no more by putting a finger to my lips, and she pointed to Tom’s stirrings. She then led me to the cow-byre where our conversation continued.
“Now tell me, does Roland have knights in his service?” I asked when we’d settled on a bale of straw.
“If ye call such rogues knights, he has a few scruffy thieves that ride with him to pillage and rape as they list,” she answered contemptuously.
My heart sank. “Thieves or no, they must be dealt with. Are there any good fighters among the villagers?”
“Depends on what ye mean by good.” Her voice reminded me of Mercadier’s: loyal, ruthless, intent. “They be not armed like yer fancy nobles, but they do the job when the heart moves them.”
“Where do their hearts stand in this matter?”
She paused briefly. “The same as mine, if that answers.”
It did.
I took a deep breath. “One other question and I’ll tell you my plan. Does the moot court still meet at Crophill?”
It did.
“And who are the judges?”
“The priest of course—that be Father Gerald what was here in your time—and Ralph of Cogshill the forester, Archie Werwillie and Lord Roland as our lord.”
“Archie Werwillie? Wasn’t he betrothed to Maisry?”
“Aye, he wanted her.”
And she him; poor Maisry.
“Well then, this is my plan …”
Our only disagreement was on when we should execute our scheme. I insisted on the morrow; Margery demanded more time for adequate preparation. I then attempted to explain my problem with Enoch, playing on her hatred of the Scots. Surely he would march in our direction within two days, three at the most. ’Twas imperative that Sir Roland be ousted before Enoch arrived.
Finally she agreed: tomorrow.
WHEN I ROSE from my straw at dawn, Dame Margery had already gone on her errands. I dressed carefully in Maid Marians tunic, dipped bread with Tom and the old lady, then waited impatiently. Haute Tierce came and went; my head began to throb with anxiety. Twice I thought I heard Scottish pipes in the distance: once it was a goat’s bleating, the second time a shepherds fife.
Then she was back with a full sack. “Got everything, love, but the pigeon took time.”
“Let’s away,” I said anxiously, “or it will be too late.”
“You look wondrous pretty, Alix,” she said adoringly. “Like Lady Catherine except that you have your father’s coloring.”
Her words heartened me more than she knew. Bemused, I recalled King Richard riding his gaudy poop into Messina, spangled cape waving defiantly in the wind, glorious smile turning this way and that. As we are seen, so are we esteemed, but he also meant that an imposing appearance gave the leader himself inner confidence. With my green and gold dress, I felt like a baroness, not a pretender. Aye, I would assume the mantle of greatness and let the rest follow.
I was aware of the villagers’ curious looks as we walked the crooked paths of Dunsmere. A weak sun had pulled them from their cottages into the open air and they sat at tables counting and sifting seeds. Dame Margery greeted every one as we passed and again I became impatient.
“Do hurry, Dame,” I urged. “I want the priest to be near when I call.”
“Easy, love,” she replied calmly. “Ye also want these folk as witness that ye were with me and in good health before ye left.”
Finally we were walking beside the familiar curved furrows of black glistening fields, the withered thorn hedges and ditches. We were headed toward Wanthwaite and my heart hit my ribs painfully, whether from memory or anticipation I couldn’t be sure.
“This be far enough,” Margery said.
We were a few feet from where Maisry had died when Margery stopped.
“’Tis really Maisry who’s going to court today,” she said quietly.
I agreed. “Maisry and my mother. Well, Dame, let’s not delay.”
Together we beat our way through the thornbush to the narrow verge by the shallow ditch where I’d lain long ago. This time I stretched on hard frozen turf as Dame Margery knelt beside me.
“This won’t hurt,” she promised, “but ’twill seem strange. Be patient, darling.”
Her hands explored and I trembled, fought to stay still. “I’m cold.”
Twice she erred, but the third time she succeeded.
“Be careful how ye walk,” Margery advised.
“Aye. Besmotter me a bit.”
She dug mud from the ditch’s bottom and smeared my face, then pulled my bodice asunder.
“Go to, My Lady. I’ll be close behind.”
“But out of sight,” I warned.
I left her and returned to Dunsmere alone, walking as fast as I dared, feeling taut as a bowstring. Then I reached the village and saw people ahead.
“Rape!” I screamed with all the power I could muster. “Help! Help me, somebody! I’ve been raped!”
Two small boys ran from a bush and gaped.
“Go get your mother,” I sobbed. “Rape!”
They didn’t move but a man ogled me from his sill, gestured wildly to someone in his hovel, then rushed to grab my arm.
“What happened, lass? Be ye hurt?”
“I’ve been raped! Take me to the church, please!”
Now a woman came, then another, who insisted that the man go away, though he didn’t.
“What happened, child? Who did the deed?” a heavy dame demanded.
“Lord Roland!” I gasped. “Please give chase—I want to charge him in court!”
“She’s raising the hue and cry against Roland,” an awed voice said. “We mun help her!”
“Roland again. Scurvy cur.”
By now an excited jabbering crowd had collected and several hands tried to support and cover me.
“Bleeding like a sticked swine, she is. Can you walk, lass?”
Soothly ’twas difficult, for in order to keep the dame’s work intact, I must take small mincing steps, hug my thighs tight. Fortunately, arms lifted me into the church. Thus wafted on a babble of horror, I watched the tonsured priest turn from his altar.
“Raped! She’s raped!” a man shouted, then a woman, then everyone.
“By Roland!” added another. “Roland!”
“Not again!” the father cried. “He’s possessed by the Devil!”
“Nay, Father Gerald, he be Old Clootie in the flesh,” stammered a goodwife. “Remember what he done to my Wilma.”
“Raped!” I repeated. “Oh, help me, Father! Lord Roland!”
I fell against the priest who hefted me onto the altar. Then I was surrounded by a blur of sympathetic faces, tried to bring tears to my eyes without success, nevertheless gazed imploringly at Father Gerald.
In a weak voice, but distinctly, I said, “Call the moot court, Father, at once, for it must be within twenty-four hours. I’ll press charges against him.”
“What do you mean?” His hound’s face quivered, his liver spots seemed to darken, his brown eyes stared fixedly.
I raised my head and said more clearly, “I want you to summon Lord Roland to the moot court at once. He raped me and must pay the price.”
My months with Zizka had taught me when I have my audience, and the group around me was now enthralled at the incipient high drama; therefore I played to them with all my heart.
“Surely this cannot
be the first offense Roland has committed?” I asked them.
“Lor’ no, lass. The gels in these parts be like so many pricked birds,” a bitter voice replied.
“He pricks the gels, steals the pigs!”
There was an angry mutter.
“But he’s the lord. What can we do? Us villeins got no rights.”
“I’ll tell you and show you if you stand by me,” I said. I rose on my elbows. “I am Lady Alix of Wanthwaite.”
The crowd heard without comprehending; nonetheless they fell silent.
Father Gerald trembled, his eyes glazed. “But—but I myself buried Lady Alix two years ago.”
“You buried a boy in my place,” I told him. “Look on me, Father Gerald. Didn’t you once come to Wanthwaite at Christmas to aid Father Michael? And I played the angel?”
“God be praised!” he whispered, awed. “But how …?”
“Later. It’s your responsibility. As an orphaned minor, I am your ward—you are my legal guardian. I want to press charges.”
He nodded, then shook his head violently. “’Tis no use, Lady Alix. Even from you. He’ll never answer such charges.”
“Tell him he’s to judge a rape case,” I instructed. “Tell him the man who’s accused is willing to pay good money for an acquittal and show him these silver coins for surety, with more coming tomorrow.”
“That’s right—trap the weasel!” a delighted voice hooted.
“We’re with thee, My Lady!”
There was a general rustle of excited approval.
The priest, torn between bewilderment and relief at my authority, took the money. “I’ll go as soon as I know you’re all right.”
“Where is the poor gel?” an authoritative voice rang out. “Let me to her.”
“’Tis Mistress Evote, the midwife,” Father Gerald warned. “She’ll have to be witness that you were really raped and that you were a virgin.”
Pressing my lips tight, I nodded.
“You’re the victim?” A deeply seamed face with currant eyes leaned close. “Someone mop her forehead or she’ll get a chill. Thankee, Babs. Now, dear, I’ll be gentle, but … Spread your legs, so, and bend your knees …”
I stared resolutely upward where disturbed bats fluttered on the church beams.
“Too much blood to see,” Evote muttered. “Mercy, mercy.”
I was clutched on both sides as cold greasy fingers moved up my thighs. Desperately I clenched my teeth, held my breath. Then exactly as planned, Dame Margery screamed from the doorway, rushed to the altar, hurled herself across me.
“My God, what did he do to you? Oh, my poor honey-pot.”
“Careful, Margery,” Evote said, “she’s pretty bad tore. I hate to make her move, but if she wants to bring charges like she says, I have to see her piss.”
My tears now flowed with ease and I was almost too weak to move. Dame Margery helped me to go behind the rood screen and held the jug.
When we presented it to the midwife, the thick, white, viscous scum of egg white floated on the bottom.
“Now look at that,” she exclaimed with awe. “Best example I e’er saw of a man’s seed.”
“How dare he plant his vile seed in My Lady Alix!” Margery screamed hysterically. “You should all raise up agin him! He’s de-spoilt our own rightful baroness! Can’t ye see who she is? Have ye no eyes? Why do ye gawk like sheep? Do something!”
She frothed, and raged, shook her fist, cried for vengeance again and again. The crowd looked at me uncertainly.
Then one burly fellow stood forth. “Remember me, My Lady? Friend to Maisry?”
“Archie Werwillie,” I said, holding out my hand.
He squeezed it hard. “I’m with ye. Tell me what ye want.”
“And me.” A red sweating wight came as well.
“Clac the Swineherd?” I knew his profession by his smell, his name from Dame Margery.
Soon I was surrounded by eager shouting villagers, each begging for instructions.
With Margery’s help I stood on the altar, so all could hear. “As rightful heiress to Wanthwaite, I am ward of the King of England. King Richard himself gave me a writ restoring Wanthwaite and all its fiefs. When I presented this writ to Lord Roland a short time ago, he tore it from me, then threw me to the ground and attacked me most cruelly.”
“Kill the monster!” a woman screamed.
I held up both hands. “He’s broken God’s and the king’s law—we will enforce the law.”
“How?”
“I’ll charge him at the moot court. And with God’s help I’ll get the judgment. But you must administer justice. Can you do it?”
“Tell us how, My Lady!”
“What means ‘administer justice’?”
“To punish the blackguard.”
“Aye, that we can do.” An angry mutter spread.
“We are an army …” I looked at their seamed worn faces, their emaciated bodies, milky eyes, diseased mouths, unset broken bones, and quailed at the task.
“Armies do not win by numbers alone, or King Richard could never have taken Acre.” More truly, the Saracens could not have held it so long; but no matter, the principle was what counted, and they would need confidence.
“An army wins by strategy, and the best strategy is surprise. We will surprise Sir Roland.”
“Kill him!” Archie screamed. “Cut him down! Butcher …”
The cry was picked up and echoed throughout the church.
I lifted both hands, as Richard would do. “Stop!” I shouted. “Stop this at once! I’m in command. You’ll follow my orders or we move not at all.”
Archie jumped onto the altar beside me. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “Listen to Lady Alix. Go on, My Lady.”
I thought of King Richard, invoked his image for guidance. “First, you must have some understanding of the law, which will be read in Latin.”
They listened courteously, but with a sinister waiting look.
“And now the enforcement, the punishment.”
Their eyes sparked.
“How many of you are skilled with the hunting bow?”
Eight men and one woman stood forth eagerly.
“Daggers or knives?”
Everyone claimed to be gifted in that area. Feeling more and more like Richard, I divided them into ranks, told them how to follow my leadership. With cunning peasant eyes, they nodded and smiled. Aye, this was the day I used the king’s training and example, with two exceptions: I had a rustic army with the paltry hunting bow as my Mategriffon; and I did not plan to have any enfants perdus.
FATHER GERALD returned from Wanthwaite in late afternoon.
“He took the bait,” he said with satisfaction. “Especially when I told him there would be more silver at the mootpit.”
“Thank you, Father. Until morning then.”
After he left, I gazed at the northern horizon, stood very still to listen. No sign or sound of the Scots yet, which meant no danger till the morrow. But I didn’t doubt they were camped just over the hills.
The following morning Father Gerald and all the villagers were already waiting, breaths steaming in the cold air, their faces nipped red when I stepped forth. They waved and one fellow raised a shiny dagger.
“Here’s to Lady Alix, our new mistress!” Clac shouted.
“Hail, Lady Alix!”
I waved back, then gathered close about me the homespun cope Margery had provided and pulled its hood over most of my face.
“Shall we pray?” Father Gerald suggested.
We dropped to our knees on the frozen ground and listened solemnly as he intoned the familiar Latin phrases invoking God’s help. Then we formed a line to begin our long walk up Crophill to the mootpit of our ancestors.
Archie Werwillie strode by my side. He carried a hunting bow and a quiver with two sharp arrows. His dark blond hair hung like bronze wires low on his forehead, and grew in an unruly crop on his eyebrows. His nose was red, a bit damp, and his hazel eyes were
filled with hatred.
“This Roland got Maisry, didn’t he?” he asked without preamble. “I heard her condition when she was brought in and I figured …”
I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t think of it, Archie. Or if you must, remember that Roland was seeking me. She saved my life.”
“And today we’ll get his.”
“I pray we do.”
“His or mine,” he said laconically.
Dame Margery shuddered.
When we turned off the path to march up Crophill, we faced an earth turned to fire, for the frosted gorse was scarlet on the hills. The rectangular mootpit was set in the midst of this flaming world, and we paused on its rim to study it before descending. ’Twas carved in six tiers of earthen seats with a flat space in the middle where a trestle had been placed.
“Do you want us archers to stand on the rim or the top tier?” Gordoc the Smith asked deferentially.
I considered. “The sixth. Don’t expose your backs. Those with daggers farther down, toward the middle.”
“And what’s the middle? The third or fourth?” Clac wanted to know.
“The tiers are deep; best say the third. I doubt if you could hurl a knife with force any farther.”
Those who carried clubs or axes chose their own places. I took careful note of where everyone sat and prayed that a combination of surprise and our superior number against Roland’s single person would suffice. Finally, I sat on the first tier at the bottom of the pit, wedged between Dame Margery and Tom.
Father Gerald moved to behind the judges’ table opposite me and put the relic box from the church on the table: St. Anne’s right ear. Archie joined him, then Ralph of Cogshill, the third judge. We awaited the chief judge, Sir Roland.
“He’s coming and he’s not alone,” Clac’s wife Adelwisa called from the rim.
“How many are with him?” I shouted up to her.
“I can’t see yet. Looks to be eight or nine.”
“Armed?”
“Aye, I believe for hunting.” She gestured that she couldn’t say more.
Archie nodded to reassure me; the priest remained calm. There was a shuffle directly behind me and sharp knees pressed into my back. I glanced over my shoulder to see a taciturn Dane called Thorketil. He smiled grimly.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 47
