by Jack
Mazarine, pallid and shocked, looked upon her guardian. ‘Never would I have believed that anyone could be so black-hearted,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I have done nothing to harm you. How you could drum up these lies to wrong me is beyond comprehension.’ Rising to her feet she added, ‘I cannot stay a moment longer beneath your roof. This day, this very hour, I will depart, whether or not you give your leave. I have done with you.’
‘You may not depart!’ shouted the earl. ‘You are under my jurisdiction!’ and he stepped forward, lifting his hand as if to strike the girl.
Instantly Wakefield Squires blocked his path. ‘Recollect, if not your honour as a gentleman, then the presence of the agent of the Judiciary,’ he said, shielding Mazarine with his body, whereupon the earl backed away. His bodyguards glowered, glancing sideways at their master as if hoping for an order to lay rough hands upon this upstart. The earl, however, was too canny to display mob violence in the sight of the messenger.
‘You are discharged forthwith, Squires,’ he said, ‘and be careful I do not have you served with a claim for damages, for you have foully mismanaged my accounts.’
‘Threaten away,’ said the young man. ‘The law is greater than you, and justice will be done.’ He offered Mazarine his arm and together they left the room.
So it happened that Mazarine and her maid departed with haste from Kelmscott Hall, in the company of Master Squires. They took refuge at Clover Cottage, where Professor Wilton and his wife insisted that Mazarine dwell until she came into her inheritance.
That night, it began to snow.
* * * *
Dorchamis, the Darkmonth, brought with it Winter Solstice and the traditions of Imbrol. The first day of the month was New Year’s Day, also called Littlesun Day. Right across the lands of Erith uproarious celebrations ushered in the new year, 1039. Enormous bonfires like burning palaces blazed on snowy hilltops. Indoors, garlands of red berried holly adorned the rafters, green ivy festooned inglenooks, sprigs of mistletoe dangled above the doors and wreaths of fir and spruce needles encrusted with pine cones decorated the tables. The human populace exchanged presents, feasted on rich fare, danced, imbibed large quantities of various beverages, sometimes quarrelled and occasionally fell down.
Wakefield Squires was fortunate enough to be offered a position in the mayor’s office in town. The remuneration was better than that which he had received at Kelmscott Hall, and he accepted the job with delight, commuting daily on foot through the snow.
Midwinter was the season when some Erithan maidens, inquisitive about the possibilities that lay beyond the boundaries of mortal knowledge, deliberated on the alarming and intriguing feasibility of venturing into the wild places during the long nights of Dorchamis, to find out whether the Caillach Gairm, the eldritch blue crone as ancient and fierce as Winter, should decide to appear and present them with a coveted Staff of Power in exchange for whatever mortal asset she might wish to take for herself — the colour of their hair and eyes, their power of song, a finger or a toe, or more ... If the girl felt that the consequences were too onerous, she would refuse to strike the bargain, yet it was a terrible decision to make, knowing that never again would she be offered that opportunity.
Neither Mazarine nor Laurelia craved the power of a carlin’s Wand. Laurelia floated with her beau on joyous clouds of romance, but Mazarine’s heart ached. She had lost the one she loved, and now, to compound her misery, she had been wrongfully accused, and faced a trial. Her friends comforted her, and in return she tried her best to appear cheerful as she joined the Imbrol festivities.
‘Will you obtain the services of a lawyer?’ Laurelia asked Mazarine, as the entire family sat around the fire in the parlour of the cottage, sipping mulled wine. Professor Wilton, a doughty gentlemen with grizzled whiskers and a receding hairline, occupied a rocking chair. His wife, a small woman in a gown of brown kersey, sat near the fire toasting crumpets on a long-handled fork, while his daughter nestled close to her betrothed on the divan. Mazarine’s maid Odalys was mending petticoats while the Wiltons’ maid-of-all-work, Tansy, perched upon a hassock alternately sewing buttons on a shirt and caressing the ears of the two pet dogs that lay stretched out on the rug. It was unusual for employers to mix so familiarly with their servants, but both Odalys and Tansy were considered to be almost part of the family.
‘No,’ said Mazarine. ‘I am innocent — that is defence enough, surely? I will speak the truth and the truth will prevail.’
‘My dear girl!’ Professor Wilton exclaimed in dismay. ‘Pardon my presumption, but surely you cannot consider demeaning yourself by speaking in court! A gentlewoman of noble birth ...’
‘Nonetheless, sir, I will do it.’
The apothecary sighed. ‘Perhaps you will think better of it eventually.’
‘I thank you for your solicitude, Professor Wilton, but I see no reason to change my mind. Besides, I cannot afford such expenses until I come into my inheritance. Until I am twenty-one, there is only a meagre income supplied to me, for keeping Odalys.’
‘We could find some way of borrowing the money,’ suggested Laurelia. ‘It could be repaid as soon as you reach your majority.’
‘Gramercie, dear friend,’ said Mazarine, ‘but I am convinced that hiring a lawyer will not help me. Before Lord Fleetwood went away, our discussions used to range over many topics, including the judicial system of Amershire. Three magistrates preside at Somerhampton Law Courts, so he said, and it is generally held that verdicts are largely influenced not by one’s lawyer, but by which judge is allotted to one’s trial. The allotments are chosen by ballot, so the outcomes are partly dependent on the luck of the draw, and partly on the merits of the case.’
‘That does not seem fair!’ exclaimed Laurelia.
‘Nevertheless, Mistress Blythe is right. That is the way it works,’ her father said.
‘What of these three magistrates?’ Wakefield wanted to know.
‘The best of them all is Judge Innsworth,’ said Mazarine. ‘She is wise, strictly impartial, and fair in her sentencing. Most folk hope to go before her. I hope I shall.’
‘Most folk? Why not all?’ asked the young clerk.
‘Because she is strictly impartial!’ said Mazarine.
‘The worst judge, for Mistress Blythe in particular,’ said Professor Wilton, courteously inclining his head in Mazarine’s direction, ‘would be Hackington-Cluny, for he is a crony of her guardian’s; a hunting and gambling companion and an oft-times visitor at Kelmscott Hall. There is not a drop of impartiality in that fellow’s blood. I suspect he can be flattered, bought or cajoled into doing or saying anything at all. No doubt he owes the earl a few favours.’
‘I fervently pray that Mazarine will not have to be tried by such an immoral character!’ cried Laurelia, scandalised. ‘If this is common knowledge, why do the authorities not relieve the rogue of his post?’
‘He wields influence over many citizens in high places.’
‘What an outrage! And the third magistrate?
‘Judge Rotherkill falls into a class somewhere between the other two,’ her father replied, ‘for he is neither as perceptive or just as Innsworth, nor as corrupt as Hackington-Cluny. Indeed, as far as I know he is not at all corrupt. His judgements and sentencing, however, leave a lot to be desired, in my opinion.’
‘I have no fear of Rotherkill,’ said Mazarine. ‘As long as it is not Hackington-Cluny who holds my future in his hands, I will not be afraid.’
‘Yes, that gentleman is indeed a formidable threat,’ said Goodwife Wilton, breaking her silence and looking up from her stitching, ‘but to my mind there is one to be even more wary of, who has even fewer scruples and a greater propensity for violence, and that is the earl himself!’
Two weeks after the Imbrol Festival, Mazarine, in the company of Laurelia, Professor Wilton and Master Squires, boarded an enclosed sleigh borrowed from a wealthy neighbour of the Wiltons. The neighbours’ coachman, Tofts, rode postilion on the near
horse of the pair. He blew the coachman’s signal for ‘start’ on his coach-horn, being rigorous in observing these formalities — whereupon the horses lunged forward, the tiny bells on their harness tinkling, and off they glided over the frozen road to the Somerhampton Law Courts.
It was just before sunrise. Peering through the thick glazing of the window, Mazarine observed the shadowy countryside through which they passed; woodlands and meadows whose snow-dusted shapes were just beginning to be picked out in glitter by the pre-dawn light. Largely uninhabited by mankind, save for the odd, courageous woodcutter or lime-burner, the vales and hills of Amershire were the secret haunts of countless unhuman, immortal incarnations, elusive and rarely seen. One had to be cautious of them, however, if one wished to arrive safely at one’s destination. There, for example, in that breeze-rattled, leafless hazel thicket, might dwell Churnmilk Peg, eldritch guardian of the ripe nuts in Autumn, who would burst out angrily at you if you tried to steal her harvest. Or that grove of wild apple trees, their black boughs now snow-laden — might be guarded by a colt-pixy who would chase away an apple-thief and curse him with ‘cramp and crooking and fault in his footing’. Winter, too, had its preternatural manifestations; in particular the sullen Brown Man of the Muirs and the blue-skinned crone, the Caillach Gairm, who roamed abroad at this, her season of greatest power.
A farmer’s sledge approached out of the gloom from the opposite direction and Tofts blew the call for ‘Near Side’, meaning that he would keep to the left and the sledge should pass on their right. The farmer looked mystified but tipped his hat convivially as he went by, and Tofts gave him a condescending nod.
Dimmed by a range of clouds along the distant hills, the sun’s glow was broadening when the sleigh came to the stone bridge that spanned Tybeck Stream and slid to a halt. No beast would cross this bridge without intervention, for it was under eldritch guardianship. The horses shivered, tossing their heads and prancing nervously between the shafts. The presence of wights always made animals excited or uneasy. As for any human pedestrians who set foot on the bridge — if they were not careful to observe formalities they would find themselves being flung over the parapet into the icy water. Standing up in the stirrups, Tofts called out authoritatively, ‘Riverside Dan! Riverside Dan! Let us cross the Tybeck Span!’
Bubbling water gurgled around the granite stanchions. A curlew whistled. After a protracted moment the sleigh lurched into motion again; the horses, sensing some kind of release beyond human ken, trotted briskly across the bridge.
Close to the town of Somerhampton some churls on the way to market had carelessly overturned a sled of winter root vegetables in the middle of the road. Imperiously, Tofts sounded ‘Clear the Road’ on his horn, as if he were the driver of the King’s Royal Coach. Rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, the peasants, well-muffled in coats and gloves, righted the sled and piled their worts back into it while Tofts waited impatiently.
At last they bowled away once more. Tofts signalled ‘Slacken Pace and Steady’, as they passed through the gates of the town, and finally ‘Pull Up’ outside the Law Courts. By this time the passengers’ ears were ringing with all the coachman’s blaring signals.
The building that housed the Somerhampton Law Courts was as majestic and solemn as befitted the proceedings that took place therein. Up and down the exterior colonnade milled an army of bespectacled scribes making copious notes on sheets of paper, and a bevy of stern guards keeping the peace. A few idlers and loafers had positioned themselves at the arched entrance portals, stamping their feet and huddling into their scarves, their breath condensing like smoke on the cold air. They ogled the new arrivals.
‘Ooh, who’s that?’
‘I believe ‘tis the earl of Rivenhall’s ward! What an enchanting young creature! I wonder what she is doing here.’
‘Perhaps she has been called as a witness in some trial.’
‘Look down the road — here comes a dashing turnout! Whose is the coat of arms blazoned on the doors?’
‘Why, ‘tis the earl himself!’
Mazarine and her companions were conducted inside to a cold, lofty chamber large enough to accommodate fifty persons but containing two sentries, a clerk, a junior clerk, a hunch-backed usher and a cluster of be-wigged gentlemen in black robes, solemnly clutching vellum-bound documents, who turned out to be the earl’s legal advisors.
‘Yours is the first case of the morning, m’lady,’ said the usher with a bow. The stench of stale beer drifted from his garments. ‘Where is m’lady’s defence counsel, if I may be so bold as to enquire?
‘I have none. I speak for myself.’
Giving a resigned shrug that expressed a certainty of doom, the usher guided the newcomers to their seats, where they waited in trepidation to discover which magistrate had been allotted to their chamber. A mild disturbance at the other end of the room accompanied the appearance of the earl and his steward.
Presently the bailiff announced the arrival of the magistrate.
‘All rise. The Honourable Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill, presiding.’ A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment passed through the company as they stood up.
Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill seated himself at a high bench behind a counter of polished walnut, and peered at the defendant from beneath a white wig. Weatherbeaten was his visage, the mouth turned downwards at the corners. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched at the end of a pointy beak of a nose. As everyone resumed their seats Wakefield murmured, ‘I mislike the look of this character. He has the world-weary air of a man who believes he has seen all and knows all, and whose jadedness has worn away any genuine sentiments he might once have felt.’
‘Methinks you are too discouraged,’ said Professor Wilton.
‘The man seems an automaton!’ Wakefield insisted. ‘I’ll warrant he will not judge the case on its merits but merely apply the formula he uses for all lawsuits of this ilk!’
‘Let us hope the formula is wise and just,’ said Mazarine, who was tightly clutching the back of the bench in front of her.
‘Silence!’ warned the clerk of courts.
The session commenced with the allegations against Mazarine being read out by the clerk. The plaintiff’s chief counsel was given to opportunity to speak, which he did, employing his eloquence so cleverly that for one absurd moment Mazarine herself was on the point of wondering whether she was, in fact, in the wrong. ‘And furthermore,’ the lawyer appended, ‘Mistress Blythe has absconded from beneath my client’s roof without permission and, by law, ought to return home immediately!’
This was an unexpected sting in the tail of his oratory. Catching Laurelia’s indignant eye Mazarine mouthed the word, Never.
The defendant was then permitted the right of reply. She stood up, as graceful and dignified as a young willow tree, but a shudder passed through the court officials and the earl’s counsel, who considered it indelicate for a gentlewoman to thus make a spectacle of herself — not to mention unfair for depriving worthy legal gentlemen of their livelihood.
Summoning her courage, Mazarine spoke clearly and concisely, presenting her version of the facts and explaining her innocence of the charges. She answered all questions straightforwardly and with such an air of honesty that it seemed clear to her friends that there could only be one verdict — she must be exonerated. When she sat down and all the giving of evidence was over, quietude reigned, overlaid by the scratching of quill-pen nibs on paper.
‘Well done!’ said Laurelia, giving her friend’s hand a squeeze. Mazarine smiled, then glanced sideways at the earl’s coterie. They looked smug.
Judge Rotherkill, expressionless, appeared to be deliberating. The waiting seemed intolerable.
Some imperceptible signal must have passed between the magistrate and the clerk of courts, for presently the latter intoned, ‘All rise for the judge’s decision.’
Respectfully, the chamber’s occupants obeyed, though the earl’s coterie managed to make it look as if they were a
bout to stand up in any case, and the order had simply happened to coincide with their own inclinations.
‘Humankind,’ pronounced Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill, leaning forward and gazing at the court over the top of his spectacles, ‘unlike eldritch-kind, is capable of telling lies. Not only capable, but adept. In a disagreement such as this no man can be certain who is telling the truth, for it is one person’s word against another’s. The question of who is in the right must be decided by Providence. Therefore I bynde both the plaintiff and the defendant to this command: that to decide the issue they, or their representatives, must fight a duel with swords.’
Expressions of shock rippled through the audience. The earl looked angry and Mazarine felt stunned. A clamour of voices broke out in the courtroom.
