“Heigh, Lord Roland, is it true you’re planning to hunt the boar?” Adelwisa cried from the rim in a penetrating nasal whine.
“Aye, immediately after the trial,” the remembered voice rumbled. “Now you could keep me home if you liked, Mistress Fulltits.”
We heard the stamp and snort of horses, the rattle of weapons, as the knights dismounted.
“I’d like to very much, but what would we do with your six friends?”
Six, I recorded her message. Too many but not as formidable as the eight she’d first mentioned.
“You’re a talented wench, Wisa. Certainly you can accommodate six lusty knights.”
“I’ll make a pact: I’ll take you and your company every one if you let me polish your swords during the court session, as I did last time. I could use a few pence,” she replied archly.
“What say you, men? The wench is worth a copper.”
With many bawdy japes and laughter, the men dropped their steel with a clatter for clever Adelwisa. But she didn’t get all.
Not daring to turn my head, I could nonetheless hear the clink of metal as the first knight leaped down the tiers. He came all the way to the front and crowded between Tom and me. A fleeting glance showed that it was Magnus Barefoot.
I sat like a rock, petrified. Subtle twists of his torso revealed that he was staring at me, but he said naught. I hoped he was merely curious to see the girl who had brought the plaint.
Next came Sir Roland. He, too, had kept some weapon despite his promise to Adelwisa, for I knew well that faint rattle of hilt against belt. Certainly he had no suspicions, for he took a long time descending; he stopped frequently to exchange greetings with various villagers. I marveled at how deftly they returned his japes. Zizka’s troupe could not have performed with more conviction. The loathsome knight edged behind the judges’ table, and sat in the middle between Archie and Ralph of Cogshill. I adjusted my hood closer and stared through my fingers at his face: same predatory eyes, scarred cheek, bad teeth, patchy hair. I swore he’d not leave this pit alive.
Now the rest of the knights had found their places, all separated from one another because we had connived to leave only a few free places. I had no notion as to whether they were still armed in some way.
Father Gerald rose, spread his arms in blessing and said a prayer. Then he intoned in a loud clear voice: “The ward of Dunsmere Township is now in session. Let the plaintiff step forward.”
My moment had come. I stepped to the table and stood opposite Sir Roland.
“Place your hand on the relic box and take your oath,” the priest told me.
I laid my hand on the box.
“I entreat you as plaintiff through the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, that you do not in any manner attempt to lie or default in this court in any way whatsoever. Do you so swear?”
I thought of my mother and Maisry. “I do so swear.”
“Will you then make your accusation in the full sight of the court and point to your assailant?” He removed the relic box.
I took a deep breath and looked squarely into Rolands eyes for the first time since the inn. “By the Lord to whom this relic is holy, so do I prosecute my suit with full folkright, without fraud, without deceit, without guile. I do swear that yesterday morning in the hours after Haute Tierce that I did meet my assailant on the path west of Dunsmere, that he did there throw me to the ground and thereby disturbed God’s and the king’s peace, that he did forcibly enter me and raft my maidenhead, thereby destroying my sacred member. After he was finished and had departed, I rose and ran to the village where I did make a hue and a cry that I had been foully raped. The villagers gave the chase, examined me to confirm the truth of my claim. This do I swear.”
Roland’s eyes were both puzzled and aroused. He seemed half-convinced by my tale, but had already forsworn justice by accepting silver from my “assailant.” He glanced around to find his benefactor.
“Excellently expressed, poor maiden,” he said. “Don’t be afraid now—point to the assailant.”
“You are my assailant.”
He turned peevishly to the priest. “The girl’s obviously been made lunatic by her experience. Explain that I’m her judge. I think she knows not the meaning of assailant.”
Father Gerald looked to me.
I repeated firmly. “You raped me, Roland, you and you alone.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped. “I never laid eyes upon you. What is this, Father? Where’s the man with silver you spoke of?”
Father Gerald was pale but firm. “Best listen, Lord Roland. You are now the defendant.”
Roland was vexed, but still controlled. He bared his gray teeth in a travesty of a smile. “You surprise me, Father. I confess I would not have thought you capable of such a jest.”
Father Gerald repeated, “Answer the charge, or prepare to be sentenced.”
“What charge? From some wanton little hussy who’s been coached? Bad timing, my dear, for I was in Cockermouth yesterday and have six knights to swear it. Can you come up with the necessary thirty-six of your common oathhelpers to balance that?”
“Yes, I can.” I raised my hand.
Instantly an exultant chorus behind me shouted, “We swear!”
“Ignorant fools!” Roland blared, exasperated. “You’ve been beguiled by this wench and don’t understand the consequences. By law I could demand your lives for perjury.”
“We be telling the truth at last, ignorant fool!” a dame yelled back.
Roland turned to Father Gerald. “For God’s sake, Father, stop this charade. In the first place, no female can sue in a court.”
Father Gerald looked uncertain.
“Women can sue in cases of felony,” I said. “That is, homicide or rape. And you’re guilty of both.”
The knight tried to lean closer to see under my hood. “Forget your schemes, little hussy. Settle on someone of your own class, for I assure you that you’ll not snag me. You won’t live to see another sunrise.”
“One of us won’t,” I agreed. “Father Gerald, read him the law.”
Roland sneered, and turned as if dismissing the whole affair. Nothing happened. Father Gerald picked up the parchment I had prepared and glanced at the stiff arrogant back. ’Twas obvious that Roland could no more follow the sonorous Latin phrases than the meanest villein present, but everyone was awed by the solemn authority of the words:
“Quod si impudice discooperuerit eam et se super eam posuerit, omnium possessionem suarum uncurrit damnum …”
Vexed beyond endurance, Roland stopped the priest. “It can’t apply, no matter how long you read, you oafish prelate! Whores have no rights!”
Evote croaked indignantly, “She war a virgin, you pisspot!”
For the first time, Roland seemed aware of the hostility facing him. His eyes raced from one of his knights to the other, but he shrugged brazenly and remained above the rabble.
“You have a taste for virgins, haven’t you?” Archie asked, a sinister threat in his voice. “Read that law, Father.”
“Et est raptus virginum quoddam crimen quod femina imponit alicui …”
“Save your breath, Father,” Roland again interrupted. “Why read Latin to apes? Besides, I see the plot at last. What is this harlot to you, Archie? Your sister? Do you believe you can marry your way to Wanthwaite?”
“I’ll never marry you, Roland,” I said with force.
“Good,” he snapped. “On that we agree.”
“But I’ll take Wanthwaite.” My voice shook with passion. “And your life as well.”
“You’re the ape what can’t understand Latin!” Archie hooted derisively “We want your eyes, your balls and your land!”
Sir Roland looked at the priest derisively. “Stop this mockery before I’m forced to harm you. ’Tis the last time I’ll warn you. Whatever happened to this lass, she’s still only a commoner and I’m her lord. What she’s doing is insurrection! She can’t bring suit!”
I threw back
my hood. “I’m Lady Alix of Wanthwaite and I charge you with sacking my castle, slaughtering my parents, raping and murdering Maisry of Dunsmere, killing Jimmy of the Gray Falcon …”
There was a fleeting moment of stunned recognition—then he moved. Instantly Archie and Ralph grabbed him from each side.
“To arms!” Roland shouted. “Magnus, take the girl!”
I whirled and saw Thorketil crash an ax through Magnus’s skull.
“Alix!”
I heard Archie’s warning too late. Roland had kicked the trestle and thrown his captors off balance; now he leaped to grab me. Behind me everyone screamed and struggled.
I fought against Roland like a demon for I saw he wanted to use me as a shield between him and the people. I used every trick I knew to no avail. He twisted me flat in front of him, wrenched my arms behind me with one of his hands, put a sharp dagger at my throat with the other. In that position, we faced a bloody spectacle: villagers clustered in tight circles around the flailing knights, as ears, hands and heads gave way to hacking blades.
“Swords! Swords!” Adelwisa passed the weapons to willing villagers.
“To arms! On your feet, men!” Roland shouted over the din. “What’s wrong with you cowards?”
Two knights still fought like tigers. Poor Clac received a death-slash across his red face, and a small child fell in a gush of blood and screamed frantically. Then one knight fell to an arrow, the other to a series of club blows.
Roland was now alone—except that he held me as hostage.
“One move toward me and the girl’s dead,” he warned ominously.
Panting, bleeding men and women stopped, gazed on helplessly, as we moved back in deadly quiet. Then a whiz and thud—Archie had shot an arrow! I felt the impact travel through Roland’s shoulder and knew at once that the thrust was not fatal. He tried to press his blade against me and I turned enough so that it didn’t cut deep, reached in my skirt for my father’s dagger. Pushed it hard into his chest-spoon.
Our faces were close, as if we were in embrace, and I watched the light of life fade from his eyes. Warm blood coursed down my hand and puddled at my feet. Benedicite, I had killed him! I watched him slide to the ground, horrified by my own act. Then I recalled King Richards words about his own father: “It was his life or mine and he ran to the point.”
I turned to see a world gone mad. Everyone was killing the dead. Women pounded on inert pulpy knights with clubs and stones. Children joined the game with rocks. Men hacked at heads to rip them off their shoulders. Genitals and eyes were held high as grisly trophies. Blood spurted and ran down the tiers, turned the mud to red broth, and seven jagged draining heads finally rode aloft on long pikes.
“Up you go!” Archie and Margery lifted me together to the shoulders of waiting grinning men to be carried in triumph back to Dunsmere. I looked down on a pit of blood. Three villagers still crouched by their own dead or wounded. Dame Margery’s face was streaked with gore like a savage s, her eyes filled with uncanny light. I turned away, frightened. The crowd chanted an incoherent screaming jabber in step to the eerie bouncing heads as I held on to the hair of my human carriers.
Even at this moment, however, I was thinking ahead. Swaying under the vacant leers of the beheaded men, I cast my own eyes anxiously over the barren horizon. Empty as the desert, not even a bird. But wait, was there a sound behind all these shrieks? I strained to hear, to no avail.
Screaming, keening, blabbering, laughing. On and on in woodly parade we created our trail of blood. In the lead hopped a frenzied Dame Margery. Dazed, I wondered if she had commanded the villagers and used me as an excuse for awesome revenge. Finally we reached Dunsmere and I saw a huge pile of faggots in the church square. Aye, this orgy was a celebration long awaited. Someone lighted the pyre and I was placed on the ground to be passed from hand to hand as I was hugged, kissed, pounded. Finally I thumped against the priest who quickly pulled me clear of the mob.
“With a heave, and a ho, off you go to Hell!” the villagers yelled as they flung the battered corpses into the fire. Then with Dame Margery at the head they formed a snake-chain around the blaze, chanting their chant, screaming in manic glee as the bodies puffed and burst, the smoke took on a sweetish stench of burning flesh.
I glanced up at the priest: his eyes were filled with reflected fire.
“I never dreamed …” I said. “Oh, Father …”
“What you’d unleash?” He grimaced. “Some spark was bound to catch, Lady, for the faggots were laid, the anger smoldering. ’Twas only a matter of time.”
The blood made the flames hiss, then subside, and the dancers used liquid fire to tipple. I saw Dame Margery share a flask with Tom, her face twisted beyond recognition.
Then I looked back into the flames, and thought of Enoch. Fear rolled like a boulder in my stomach. What was I doing here wasting my time? Enoch could easily bypass Dunsmere, aye, and would too.
“I’m going up to Wanthwaite,” I told Father Gerald.
He was shocked. “Not without some of the men, you can’t. How do we know we slew all of Roland’s knights? They come and go …”
“I’ll take care, but I must leave. Now!” Urgency and panic made it hard to speak. “Come with me, Father. You’re my guardian.”
I turned and ran toward Dame Margery’s to get Thistle and my things. The sun was directly overhead as I trotted past the frenzied, distracted dancers. Father Gerald swung up on Thistle’s rump, his robes flying.
Out in the open fields, I spurred Thistle to a gallop straight toward the distant tower of Wanthwaite. I reined to a sudden stop at the river, wanting to savor my entry into the park. The water was crusted with ice along the edges, the spinney slick under the trees where snow had stayed frozen, yet a few red leaves clung to the beeches and the sky was a blinding blue. Each trunk, each limb, each rock held a memory for me and my chest was suffused with warmth. I was coming home.
Yet I heeded the priest’s warning that there might be people about and listened as we went. No need: ’twas as silent as a graveyard. Indeed, when we reached the bailey we found it exactly as I had left it on the dreadful day of the sacking. Stubs of burnt huts had begun to rot, but nothing had been rebuilt, nor were there any animals. Strange. What had Roland done for milk? For eggs? For pigeons? Or grain? Where were the villeins?
Thistles hooves rang hollowly on the moat bridge and I forced myself not to look downward into the water. Dame Margery would tell me in good time what had happened to my father’s corpse. Then we were inside the court and stared with wonder. Drifted leaves banked the old catapult which seemed like a scrawny bird with its long skinny neck thrust forward, its cradle gaping like a hungry beak. Piles of gear were scattered at random. I turned Thistle to the stables.
Here the situation at least showed life, for a pretty mare and her foal gazed at me with mild curiosity when we entered. I fed the pair as well as Thistle, stripped my steed of his bridle, then went to explore inside the castle. Father Gerald tactfully let me go alone.
Appalled, I stood at the entrance to the great hall. The wooden wall where my parents had sat in the window seat had been replaced by a massy stone structure with Norman fireplace and arrow-slits. Naturally the firepit was gone, likewise the smoke hole above it. But that wasn’t the worst. The whole place appeared to be a campground used by waves of fleeing hordes after disaster had struck. Layers of discarded armor, bits of clothing, furs, scraps of furniture lay mixed with animal and human leavings. The odor was execrable. Horses had lived here, aye, but horses were clean compared to their masters. Nor was the filth without its own inhabitants. Rats climbed boldly over the heaps and glared with eager black eyes, noses twitching for new spoils. Above, bats stirred like the flying rats that they were and dropped their own crunchy ordure over the whole.
Sickened, I walked up the stairs. Kites shrieked from my laurel gourds when I entered my own chamber and something that I didn’t wait to see twisted in the mangy furs on my bed. My parents�
� room was even worse, for the floor was covered with gray hairy mold which made my feet stick to the ground.
I ran back to the fresh air and sun, disappointed unto death. I hadn’t come after all—there was no home! Except in my mind. Aye, memory and yearning were all that were left. I could have found Wanthwaite better by remaining forever away from this foul, fetid spot; at least then ’twould have stayed untainted, protected.
My head pounded with grief.
Pounded—with the beat of a drum!
I raised my eyes, pricked my ears and heard it close upon the river. The Scottish pipes! Deus juva me, Enoch!
I ran back into the hall. Came back and clutched the priest fiercely by the arms. Not knowing what to do.
THE OMINOUS BEAT OF THE DRUM, THE THIN RAUCOUS screech of the fife, the repetitious drone and skirl of the pipes grew steadily in volume as the army crossed the river below and began its slow ascent through the park. I pulled the nervous priest to my side and placed myself firmly at the entry. The terror was still there making every innard tremble, but I would be damned in Hell if I let Enoch see so much as a hair quiver on my head.
When at last he came in sight on the far side of the bridge, however, I felt such a rush of panic that it took the memory of my father and my mother to hold me in place. Only my expectation and the general outline of his body told me it was Enoch at all, for he appeared more like a garish oversized insect atop a courser. His skin was painted a glistening blue-black and his head was covered by a flat helmet with a long metal nose-guard and high plumes, for all the world evoking the feelers and proboscis of a giant wasp. He wore silver-studded wooden shields like hard shells before and aft, blood-red kilts and vest, a miniver cape, sporrans and spears bristling like wire hairs from his body.
Behind him in close ranks came his wasp-army in similar fearsome garb, with each man wrapped in plaid. The sight and sound of these infamous intruders rumbling and skirling across my bridge stiffened my resistance. By the time Enoch had reached me, I saw him as the usurper that he was, the ruthless viper who’d sold my body to the king. He’d been wise to arrive with an army behind him or I swear I would have killed him; let him ride the same pike as Sir Roland.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 48
