The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  She was right. The pain of the stitching was bad, but bearable. Wilma was deft and her hands were sure. Rachel’s hands helped, too, by holding his right hand and mopping the sweat off his brow. No one spoke. Finally, when the stitches were in, Wilma pronounced herself satisfied and then carefully re-bandaged both gashes. Finally, she made a sling and placed his hand in it, warning him to keep his hand lower than his elbow, and not moving the arm more than was necessary.

  “Wear the sling for several days, Lore-man,” she concluded. “That will help the healing to get a good start. And now, Rachel, take him to his room, and we will send him some dry clothes.”

  Don lurched to his feet and thanked his hostess. Then he followed Rachel down the long, open room to a side passage. She opened the fourth door on the right and showed him into a small bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished. The floor was nicely covered in a braided rug. A small fireplace took up one corner of the room, and a fire had been kindled there. A narrow window showed the ruddy glow of sunset, turning the white pillow on the narrow bed to a rose color.

  “Just wait a minute, Lore-man, and we’ll bring you some nice , dry clothes,” she said, as she turned toward the door.

  Her smile was as bright as the western sky. “Perhaps when you’ve rested a short while, you will be able to talk with my father. He will be in from his work shortly.”

  “Thank you, my Lady,” Don replied. “I’m sure I shall.”

  “It’s Rachel, please,” she giggled. “‘My Lady’ makes me sound a hundred years old.”

  “Well, then, Rachel, you must call me Don,” he responded.

  She only smiled again, then turned and left the room, gently closing the door behind her.

  Don paced the room for a short while. But, to his disappointment, the change of clothing and yet another pan of warm water was brought not by Rachel but by Howard. He learned that the boy was Rachel’s younger brother, and they talked for several minutes while Don changed. Howard helped pull off the damp tunic, then left with it, leaving Don to finish dressing. Don undressed, sponged himself off, and dressed. The new tunic was of coarse, beige-white wool, but it was well woven and was a good fit. With the dry clothes and the sling in place, he felt much more comfortable.

  He sank into a soft chair next to the small blaze. Could it be, he wondered, that all these things have happened in one day? He began recollecting all that had happened since his early waking. Then his eyelids fell.

  He awoke after a deep sleep to meet Rachel’s father. Edward of Westerly, was a tall, well-proportioned man, apparently in his mid-fifties. His hair and beard were close-cropped in the older fashion, and the gold in his hair was well mixed with silver. His bright blue eyes were as youthful looking as his son’s, and his reserved smile showed a full set of teeth. His hands were large and red, and his neck was the color of leather.

  Don’s first meeting with Edward began badly. Howard woke Don from a deep sleep, and he was groggy and confused. His joints ached, and he could hardly stand erect when the older man strode into the room and gave him the customary guest-greeting and handshake. Don’s reply and expressions of thanks were halting and weak-sounding even in his own ears.

  “Well, then, Lore-man Fisher,” began Edward, forcefully. “Do me the honor of sharing a mug of ale in the main room, and we can have your supper as well. The rest of the household has already eaten, except for Howard.”

  Don followed the tall man back to the large hall and saw a trestle table set up close to the fire. An oil lamp was lighted overhead, casting a clear, yellow light. Three foaming mugs sat on the board.

  “To your quick recovery,” was Edward’s toast to Don. He wiped the foam from his flowing mustache. His mouth smiled, but not his eyes.

  “To the health of your home,” responded Don. He drank deeply. The ale was heavy but not too bitter. Howard sat next to his father and sipped at his mug. A stout girl with a kerchief over her hair served them large bowls of stew and plates of buttered bread. They began to eat in silence.

  After several minutes, and at his host’s urging, Don told the story of the attack on his party and his escape. The meal was nearly finished when his story ended. Edward listened intently, as if he wanted to hear every detail. Then, when the story was told, Edward went back through the account, point by point. He had an amazing memory and questioned Don very closely on detail after detail. Why had he hidden so long in the river? Why did he happen to leave just before the attack? Why did he take the sword? Finally, he drained his mug and fixed his gaze directly at Don.

  “Your tale is a strange one,” said Edward, musingly. “But it has the ring of truth. I hope it is true, for I would like to believe you are what you seem.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Don, a bit abruptly.

  “What I mean, Lore-man,” replied Edward, “What I mean, is that you have been accused by one Jon Jonson, a drover of the late company, of conspiring with the Raiders to slaughter the caravan in which you traveled. He will also accuse you of theft since he reported the sword in the other room as stolen.”

  “Is he also accusing me of assaulting him with a walking stick?” spat out Don, sarcastically.

  “No. He claims to have been felled by a mace and left for dead.”

  “Can he explain why I would want to do all this? Or how these Raiders would have had contact with anyone from Goldstone?”

  “He says you are a spy for the Prophet, and Stub the wagon master found you out. You had arranged for the Raiders to rob the train, so you simply asked them to kill all witnesses.”

  “Is it unusual for all members of a party to be killed?”

  “Not unheard of, but they normally spare those who surrender.”

  “This is ridiculous!” said Don. “Surely you’ll believe my word over an ox drover.”

  “Perhaps,” came the cool reply. “Perhaps I would. Although you should know that another survivor, one Barak of Malta, supports Ox-drover Johnson.”

  Don sat speechlessly, his supper like lead in his stomach. His temples and cheeks were hot with embarrassment. He simply did not know what to say.

  “I would normally hear the evidence,” continued Edward in the cold tones of a hand axe breaking ice. “However, you are my guest, and my honor forbids me from taking jurisdiction. The Black Wolf patrol leader has allowed me to escort you to Stonegate tomorrow to stand trial. Otherwise, you would have had to leave long before this. Do you understand this is a serious matter?”

  Don nodded mutely as the other man continued. “If you will give me your word that you will not try to escape I will not restrain you, but I must take and hold the sword.”

  After Don gave his word, Edward escorted him back to his room. Edward put the sword under his arm and then grabbed his shoulder, at the door.

  “Are you familiar with Stonegate law?” he asked.

  Don answered in the negative. “I cannot serve as your lawyer,” continued Edward thoughtfully. “But I think I can find a man who will speak for you and treat you fairly.”

  “I lost my money except for a bit in my purse, my books, my manuscripts and my letters of introduction,” returned Don. “I may not find a way to earn my bread without them. How can I pay a lawyer?”

  “Lawyers are never paid if their client loses,” came the somber reply. “If you win, we can work out an arrangement.”

  “What is the penalty—if I should lose?” asked Don.

  “Why …” came the answer with a note of surprise. “Death, of course.”

  †

  Don was awakened in the dim light of morning by Howard, who was already dressed for the road. In his hand he held Don’s gray tunic, looking as good as new. The seam and the rent in the sleeve had been cleverly mended and the blood and mud washed out. Don felt it. It was warm and dry to the touch.

  “My sister sewe
d it herself, after the maid washed it, and then dried it before the fireplace,” said Howard, in response to Don’s unspoken question. “Now it is time for you to get dressed. It is a hard half-day to Stonegate.”

  “Are we going today, then?” asked Don, afraid that he would never see her again. His finger traced the fine seam.

  “Aye. Such was the request of Lord Teddy, the patrol leader, to my father,” came the answer. ‘Justice delayed is justice denied’ said the ancients. But—you are the lore-man.”

  “Don’t remind me,” quipped Don, as he struggled into the tunic. He splashed some cold water on his face and hands. His bandaged arm was still stiff and sore. He was glad he had shaved the evening before, in the luxury of hot water. He slapped the dust out of his fur-trimmed cap and actually felt presentable.

  But no one saw the three of them off, except for the stocky watchman. Don, Howard and Lord Edward mounted in the courtyard. Don had never ridden before, but his mount was a gentle one. Not so gentle, though, that he could escape his fear of falling. He held onto the saddle with both hands, hunched over his mount’s withers.

  They had only gone a short distance, and were nearly through the gate, when he momentarily felt stable enough to look back over his shoulder for a moment. He saw the high-gabled hall and caught a glimpse of something white in a lighted window. Could that be her? Perhaps he would never know. They rode out of the freehold and down the Stonegate road, a long lane flanked by rows of cottonwoods, just beginning to bud.

  He never remembered much about that first ride, but he never forgot his first view of Stonegate. The grey stone wall of the city reached from the bank of the river to the top of a rise, about one half mile to the west. Perhaps twenty-five feet high, it was not impressively tall, but the area enclosed was obviously quite large. Certainly, it was the largest city Don had ever seen. A few houses faced the road as they neared the gate, and merchants’ stalls filled the intervening spaces. The city gates were open, but as they drew near, five horsemen rode out to meet them, moving through the sparse crowd like swans through lily pads. They reined up in front of them and greeted Edward courteously. They then inquired if Don was the accused. When Don nodded, the taller man in the lead addressed him directly. “Since you stand accused of a crime punishable by death, I must ask for your belt knife. I also must bind your hands.” He then looked quizzically at Edward, then added, “Since they are not already bound.”

  “He has sworn not to try to escape,” said Edward, shortly.

  “Yes, Lord Edward,” the horseman returned. “I must assume so. But the law is clear. Lore-man, we do not doubt your oath, but the law requires prisoners arrested and charged with serious crimes to be disarmed and bound before entering Stonegate.”

  Don drew his dagger and passed it to Edward. “Here,” he said. “Hold this for me, if you will.” Edward nodded, and accepted the blade.

  The binding proved to be a formality only. Don’s hands were loosely tied, then they all rode under the broad gate towers and into the busy heart of the city. The main street was paved with square-cut red and grey stones and was broad enough for twenty horses to ride abreast. The side streets were much narrower, and Don noted that not all of them were paved. It took them only a few minutes to ride through the main commercial area. Straight as an arrow shaft ran the main way through the center of town and beyond to a grassy knoll to the west. On the knoll loomed an imposing fortress of black basalt. The gate to this central citadel stood open as they climbed the paved ramp and entered its walls.

  Several boys took their mounts, and let them away, hooves ringing on the cobbles of the courtyard. A guard of four men clad in mail and armed with spears and swords inquired of their mission. When advised that an accused person was being delivered for trial, they led the party to a stone building on the east or left side of the central courtyard.

  “Here is the Court of the Warrior, Lore-man,” explained Edward as they walked through the heavy, iron-studded doors. “Your case will be heard by three judges. Two are city elders and the third will be the marshall of the citadel. The marshall is named Connell, and he is a formidable man. This hearing is necessary because this is a capital case. If they believe that there is enough evidence to order a trial, they will so order, and you will be tried within the week.”

  “Do they pass sentences?” asked Don, nervously. “At the trial, I mean.”

  As they talked, they entered a square foyer, floored with stone. Closed doors faced them from all four walls. Don glanced up and noticed that the beamed ceiling was pierced with loopholes. It was clear that this was a military fortress and not a palace of luxury. The answer to his last question interrupted this chain of thought.

  “Nay. The three do not sit together, but one of them will most likely judge the trial,” answered Edward. “The three judges serve on a rotation, and Stonegate trials are sometimes held here on the hill and sometimes in town.”

  “Who rules Stonegate?” asked Don, the question occurring to him for the first time.

  “No one man does,” answered Edward. “The town is governed by the mayor, and the army by the marshall. Both are subject to the Council of Five, of which they, themselves, are members. The council is advised by the lords from all outlying districts, of which I am one. If a vacancy occurs on the council, the remaining members select a replacement from the lords. The mayor is elected, but the lordships are hereditary.”

  He had only just finished speaking when a guard returned and escorted their party through a door, down a short corridor, and into a small room, dimly lit by a narrow window (more like an arrow slit than a window, if the truth were known). Benches were built into the walls around the room, and a small table with writing instruments and four chairs stood in the center of the floor.

  “This is the room of the accused, Lore-man,” said Edward, quietly. “And there is your spokesman.” He pointed to a man sitting at the table. Middle-aged, he also had close-cropped hair and beard, a rich tunic held by a gold pin, a deep green cloak and spotless white trousers, gartered to the knees with green velvet strips. At the sound of Lord Edward’s voice, he looked up with a smile, and rose. The two men shook hands warmly.

  “We do not have much time, Lord Edward,” said the man in a deep, resonating voice. “The court will hear the case in an hour. The aggrieved and his party have been here all morning.”

  “That will have to do,” answered Edward, with a grin that was more like a grimace. He waved at Don. “This is Lore-man Donald of Fisher, lately of Castle Goldstone. Lore-man, this is Thomas of Longmont.”

  The two men looked each other up and down. Then their eyes met as they shook hands in the ancient fashion. Don was slightly taller, but the older man was much broader across the shoulders. His eyes were hazel, his brows dark, and his black hair shot with streaks of white. He did not smile at Don, but nodded.

  “Thank you for speaking for me,” said Don, hesitantly. “I know nothing of Stonegate law.”

  “Then tell me of what you do know,” came the short reply. “What happened yesterday morning?”

  They all took seats on the benches, except Edward, who excused himself and left the room. Don glimpsed the guard standing just outside the door as he exited. Then Don told his story again. As before, Thomas took him through the incidents twice, asking questions about every detail. Howard was sent to fetch the staff. When he returned, Thomas and Don reenacted the sword fight with the drover. At last Thomas seemed satisfied.

  “Your story rings true, Lore-man,” said Thomas, thoughtfully. “But I must warn you that the drover’s does as well. The fact that you are a lore-man will not be held in your favor.”

  “Why not?” asked Don, surprised.

  “We hold lore-men in respect,” returned Thomas. “Yet many of our folk mistrust them and would likely believe a tale of dark plots. Your story is good, but any lore-man could tell as g
ood, true or not, they will say.”

  “But … but,” blurted Don, “why would I betray this caravan? I had no reason. The drover’s reason for telling lies is obvious, but why should I lie?”

  “True, why indeed?” returned Thomas. “Unless you’re a spy for the Prophet, I cannot see a reason. But we’ve little time. I’ve had the drover’s sword held as evidence as well as your staff. Remember, do not speak for yourself unless answering a direct question.”

  Thomas was interrupted by the return by Lord Edward. As he entered the room, he called Thomas to a corner and whispered something into his ear for several minutes. Don could not hear what was being said. At that moment, a young man entered the room bearing a naked sword. He wore mail, but was bareheaded. “The prisoner, Donald, accused of conspiracy, will come forward,” he ordered. Donald stood up. “You and your counselors will follow me.”

  Donald and Thomas followed him through the guarded door, down the passage, and finally into a large chamber. Windows on the courtyard side of the room let in some light, but the eastern wall was pierced only by loopholes. The gloom was alleviated by several oil lamps.

  Three men sat behind a bench on a raised platform. The room was otherwise quite plain. Rows of benches took up about half the chamber, divided from the platform area by a waist-high wooden rail. Two horseshoe-shaped alcoves in the rail flanked the bench. Don was motioned to the alcove on the right. As he stepped up to the rail, a manacle was locked around his wrist. At the other horseshoe stood the young drover. Don hardly noticed the preliminary statements. He glanced at a penman sitting before the bench, making notes at a rapid pace. He did remember hearing his name and the nature of the charges, and he was able to concentrate enough to follow clearly his spokesman. Thomas replied that the charges were false, and charged the drover with assault. The other spokesman then began to summarize the drover’s story.