‘Not the common gaol,’ said Straccan. ‘Let him have water to wash and a cell to himself. I’ll pay for bedding and food from a cook-shop. Oh, and no irons.’
‘Have to be irons, sir, even for a privileged prisoner. Petty treason’s a cut above plain old murder.’
‘Not your biting irons, then. Decent irons that don’t cut, and a walking length of chain. There’ll be another purse in it if I can rely on you.’
‘I’ll see to it meself, sir.’
The cook had decimated the population of the dovecote and the kitchen was full of feathers, some of which were still floating about in the inner ward and even in the outer bailey, and clinging to the clothes and shoes of the servers at supper. At the high table, Straccan picked one off his blancmange and continued his conversation with the constable, while below the dais a pair of tumblers went through an unenthusiastic routine, ignored by the diners.
‘He’s been accused, my lord, but it seems there’s no proof, nor any witnesses.’
‘There is a witness,’ Cigony said. His wife had insisted on rubbing his chest with some concoction of her own; he smelled strongly of wintergreen but it seemed to have done some good. He’d hardly sneezed at all during supper.
Straccan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Who, my lord?’
‘Drogo.’
‘But he’s—’
‘Doesn’t matter, apparently. They’ve brought the corpse here from Devilstone for a Hearing. Coroner’s idea, not mine!’
Straccan found he’d gone off his pudding. He pushed it away. ‘When’s the Hearing?’
The constable spat out a small feather which had escaped his vigilance. ‘Tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. Well, he couldn’t leave anyway until the floods went down. Nothing would be moving in or out of Ludlow for the next two or three days. South of the town, Leominster and miles of surrounding country were under water. Even the king wouldn’t expect him to swim to Avonmouth.
Cigony leaned back in his chair, waving away the dish of sweets a server offered. The tumblers finished their turn and stood sweating, holding out their caps for coins. None were thrown and after an embarrassed moment or two they backed away, muttering.
‘The young woman I brought here, my lord—’
‘Oh, her,’ the constable said glumly. ‘Alis. She won’t go home. She says the prisoner couldn’t have killed her father.’
‘Is she Drogo’s daughter?’
‘Yes, and the prisoner’s sweetheart.’ Cigony sighed heavily. When it came to dealing with young women he hadn’t a clue. Alis could not be permitted to see the prisoner, of course, so must either be sent home again — which she strenuously resisted — or kept somewhere safe in the town. The constable had looked resignedly at her — rough-dried, muddy and stubborn. He knew determination when he saw it and handed her over to his wife.
‘Why bother yourself with this business?’ Cigony drained his cup. ‘He’s not your man.’
‘I found him, my lord. I feel responsible for him.’
Straccan leaned his elbows on the board and watched the next turn, a juggler, new to it and nervous. The lad began tossing a few coloured balls, dropping some and sending a couple shooting into the diners’ puddings. When he graduated to daggers Straccan judged it prudent to leave before any blood was shed.
Chapter Fourteen
At the sound of the key in his cell door Havloc jumped to his feet with a clank of chain, slumping back in relief when he saw who his visitors were.
Are you all right?’ Straccan asked, looking hard at him for cuts or bruises. The young man was pale, unshaven and noticeably thinner. He was chained by one leg to a staple in the cell wall, and there were scabbed shackle-galls on his wrists, although the gaoler had kept his promise and removed those chains. Other than that, though, he seemed unmarked.
‘I’m well, sir, and thankful to be out of the pit. Sir Richard, what’s going to happen to me? Do you know? They say. . . they say that I killed a man.’ The knuckles showed bone-white in his clenched fists. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said desperately. ‘I can't, Sir, what will they do to me?’
‘There’s to be a Hearing,’ Straccan said. ‘The coroner will present his reasons for accusing you.’
‘Then what, sir?’
‘That’ll be up to the jury. If they say you’re innocent you’ll be a free man again.’
‘And ... if not?’
‘Then the constable will decide what to do with you.’
Havloc shivered, wrapping his arms tightly round himself for comfort. ‘Am I a murderer?’ he whispered. ‘God help me, I don’t know! I can’t remember. One of the guards told me to pray to Saint Leonard, patron of all prisoners.’ He looked at Straccan with desperate eyes. ‘I do pray, sir, day and night, but nothing’s changed.’
‘You ain’t in the pit, at any rate,’ said Bane.
‘Forgive me,’ said Havloc contritely. ‘I’m not ungrateful. But I’m afraid!’
‘Take heart at this, then,’ Straccan said. ‘On our way back to Ludlow we met with a young woman coming here to speak for you. She says Drogo was still alive; she saw and spoke to him after you left Devilstone.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Alis of Devilstone. If her name doesn’t mean anything to you you’re in for a nice surprise. She says she’s your sweetheart. Don’t look so scared, lad. She’s on your side!’
The constable’s wife clucked over her new charge, tut-tutted at her ruined clothes and ransacked chests and coffers to outfit Alis with the necessities. A motherly woman whose daughters were grown and long gone to husbands of their own, she tucked Alis under her wing, and that night in their bedchamber badgered her husband on the girl’s behalf, much to the annoyance of his squire who slept on a pallet at the foot of the great bed. No consideration, the great folks, he thought crossly, as Lady Margery’s strong and carrying voice went on, and on. He wished she’d shut up and let him get a bit of kip. So did his lord.
‘I can see her mother in her,’ the lady mused. ‘She has Eloise’s eyes and the same firm chin. Poor Eloise, I knew her quite well before she married that pig Drogo. Nothing of him in the girl, thank God! It’s a great pity she’s compromised herself with this murderer of yours.’
‘My dear,’ protested the constable, roused by this injustice from the first fuzzy layers of sleep. ‘He has not yet been found guilty. And according to this girl….’
Alis.’
Alis, yes. Her evidence must be heard and judged. Havloc couldn't have killed her father, she says. He was with her all the night before he left Devilstone, and Drogo was still alive after he’d gone.’
‘Oh!’
While Lady Margery digested the implications and the squire found a sudden interest in this aspect of the tale, Cigony resumed his interrupted descent into the soft well of slumber only to be jerked up again by his spouse’s knuckle in his ribs.
‘Cigony. Cigony!’
‘Eh? What? Oh, for pity’s sake, Margery.’
‘If she’s not a virgin any more we will have to say they are betrothed.’
The constable thumped his pillow. It had seemed soft enough minutes ago but now he couldn’t get comfortable. He turned on his side with a sigh. His ear felt as if it was resting on a log.
‘Are they betrothed?’ he asked.
‘They’d better be,’ muttered Lady Margery ominously. ‘Father Ambrose will have to marry them as soon as you let this Havloc go.’
‘I can't let him go, woman! He’s been accused, there’s to be a Hearing. Oh God,’ he said as an unpleasant thought struck him. ‘I hope it’s not hot tomorrow.’
‘After all that rain I hope it will be hot,’ said his wife. ‘I’ve never known such a summer. I found mould on your clean drawers in the linen chest this morning. What Hearing?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. ‘The corpse is to witness against the slayer.’ It was dark, but he could feel his wife’s disgusted glare. ‘It’s Paulet’s idea, not mi
ne.’
‘Paulet! He’s a fool.’ Lady Margery’s voice dripped contempt. The king’s coroner, Sir Brian Paulet, was from Aquitaine and considered himself superior to the rest of mankind. Lady Margery couldn’t stand him. ‘Anyway, if Havloc was with Alis….’
‘If! That’s the whole point, Madge. There’s only her word for it. A-a-aratcha! Oh, God!’ His cold was usually better in bed, but all this talking must have got it going again. ‘The word of a girl in love,’ he continued, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Possibly with child, have you thought of that?’ His squire was all ears now, and smirking in the dark. ‘Her word won’t carry any weight by itself.’
‘She’s a truthful girl.’
‘You’ve only just met her.’
‘I knew her mother.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right then. That’ll go down well at the trial. “She must be telling the truth, my lords, I knew her mother!”’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Cigony!’
‘Sorry,’ muttered the constable. He banged his pillow with his fist and sat up, leaning back against it. Blessed welcoming sleep had beckoned, been denied and fled. He could talk all night now if that’s what his wife wanted.
‘Can’t Paulet let the man go, if Alis swears to his innocence?’
‘Even if the corpse fails to accuse Havloc I don’t think Paulet will take her word, Madge.’
‘Then tell him you believe her!’
‘Do I?’
‘Sir Richard does.’
‘Straccan?’
‘Didn’t he tell you how he found her?’ Lady Margery launched into an account of the rescue from the broken bridge. ‘You see?’ she finished. ‘She wouldn’t go to safety without her horse; she wouldn’t even desert that wretched leper.’
‘Well, yes, I grant you that was admirable.’ Stupid, he thought, but — he had to admit — admirable.
‘If she was a man you and that wretched Paulet would take her word without question!’
‘You’re probably right, Madge.’ He fidgeted with the pillows, shifted his legs — the whole bed seemed lumpy, hot and uncomfortable. He could do with a drink. Waving down his squire who scrambled up to attend him, Cigony swung his legs out of bed, padded to the livery cupboard and poured a cup of wine. ‘Would you like a wafer?’
This minor attempt at distraction was ignored. It took more than a wafer to deflect Lady Margery.
‘You’ll talk to Paulet, then?’
Back in bed, carefully keeping his cold feet away from his wife’s warm ones, the constable sighed and accepted his lot in life. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘Cigony!’
What?’
‘You’ve got crumbs in the bed again!’
Chapter Fifteen
There was only one witness and he was already dead, but that didn’t matter; he could still give evidence.
So many had come for the entertainment that there wasn’t room to swing a cat. Some had even bagged places the day before, bringing food and drink and camping overnight on their chosen spot; and for those with less forethought a vendor had set up a pie stall and was doing a brisk trade, in spite of the smell that pervaded the enclosure, ripening as the sun rose higher.
Brought to Ludlow in a cart, the body lay on a plank supported on trestles placed where any breeze would serve to carry the odour away from the kitchen nearby. Unfortunately, there was no breeze. The fine morning was already hot, and the corpse lay beneath a glistening pall of humming flies. A brazier burned beside the rough bier, but the fragrant herbs sprinkled on the charcoal stood no chance in the olfactory battle.
Inside, in the great hall, the prisoner’s sweetheart waited. The corpse would have its say first. If that proved the accused guilty, there would be no need to hear the woman. God would have spoken. The cheerful noise of expectation died down as the constable and his officers made their appearance, only to rise again in a tide of boos and hisses as the prisoner was brought out.
‘Get a move on,’ said the constable. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
The clerk of record wrote busily in Latin Officialese on his parchment roll:
Drogo, lord of Devilstone, being slain wickedly in the peace of the lord king, is brought hither according to custom and the law of God to bear witness. And Havloc, Drogo’s man, taken for the slaying, comes. And the corpse is asked, is this man guilty? And…
Father Ambrose seized Havloc’s right hand, held it up like a trophy for all to see and slapped it down hard upon the corpse’s breast. A bubbly belch burst from the dark puffy lips, and a pregnant woman who had elbowed her way to the front so as not to miss anything fainted.
There was a moment of silence, and then a general groan of disappointment when it was seen that the corpse neither rose in miraculous accusation nor mutely bled. Some tried to argue that the belch was significant but Father Ambrose said it didn’t count.
The constable beckoned the coroner, who had kept as far back as he could from the proceedings with his nose buried in a prophylactic posy of flowers. 'Well, Paulet? Now what?’
The coroner glared at the uncooperative cadaver. 'It may be that the corpse is too old to bear true witness, there being no liquid blood,’ he suggested.
'Rubbish,’ snapped Cigony. 'God can liquefy blood if there’s need. Can’t He, Father Ambrose? Yes! There! You wanted this filthy ritual, Paulet. Don’t tell me now you won’t abide by it!’
The coroner gestured broadly with his nosegay and the constable sneezed violently as if orchestrated. 'There is still the theft to be considered,’ Paulet said. ‘That is a hanging matter, although not in my hands.’
The clerk’s pen scratched, scribbling fast.
... it bore no witness against Havloc, and he is . . .
He looked up at the constable. ‘Is he innocent, then, my lord?’
‘Yes,’ said the constable and ‘No,’ said the coroner together. The clerk of record made a blot and swore.
Cigony swung round upon the trembling jury. 'All right, you lot, out with it!’
Heads leaned together, whispering anxiously, and eventually one, shoved forward as the reluctant spokesman for all and pale with the responsibility, pulled off his cap and mumbled, ‘Please, me lord, pardon an all, but we reckon as we oughter hear what yon young wumman’s got to say.’
‘You’ve made me waste a good hunting morning with your stinking mummery,’ said Cigony, turning on the coroner. ‘Either he’s guilty or he’s not! It won’t do, Paulet. The girl will have to be heard now. I’ll see you in the hall.’ He made swiftly for the damp coolness indoors, calling over his shoulder, ‘Take the prisoner back to his cell until I decide what to do with him. The rest of you wait in the hall.’
‘Well?’ said his lady when her husband, glossy with sweat and panting from the stairs, entered her bower. ‘Sit down, my lord, do. Pah! How the stink clings to you! Well?’
‘A farce,’ said Cigony, sinking onto a low stool at his wife’s side, breathing hard, his face and neck an alarming colour.
Lady Margery unbuttoned the neck of his tunic and laid cool fingers against the bulging veins in his forehead. She nudged a serving woman. ‘Bring ale,’ she said, ‘and a basin of water for my lord to wash.’ And to her husband, ‘I don’t mean that Godless charade outside. Did you talk to Paulet? Has he heard Alis?’
One of her women came in with a basket of fresh-picked strewing herbs and scattered them over the floor. Cigony gave a tremendous sneeze. Funny, he thought, he hadn’t sneezed once while outside just now. Why was that? Could it be something to do with the stink? Would other stinks have a similar effect? Come to think of it, he never sneezed when in the privy . . .
‘Cigony!’
His wife’s sharp voice recalled him from the byways of alternative medicine. ‘They are waiting for you in the hall.’
There was no budging the coroner. He’d had an unpleasant morning; he was frightened, disgusted and in no mood to be reasonable. ‘Havloc’s guilt is beyond question,’ he insi
sted. ‘He killed his master, stole the cup and fled. His ring was found by the corpse. This ring.’ He produced it in evidence, a cheap silver band set with a bit of crystal. ‘The lady and the priest at Devilstone identified it as his.’
The jury muttered to one another, but Straccan whispered something to the constable and Cigony asked, ‘Where exactly was the ring found?’
The coroner looked peeved. ‘As I said, close by the body. The murderer lost it in the struggle when he killed his master.’
Straccan prompted again and the constable asked, ‘Who found it?’
From among the spectators a woman pushed forward. ‘I did, my lord.’
‘Who are you?’ Cigony asked.
‘Ceridwen of Devilstone.’ The clerk of record hastily jotted it down. ‘I washed my lord’s body and dressed it for burial.’
‘Where did you find the ring?’
‘In his pocket,’ she said.
There was some murmuring at this and Straccan said loudly, ‘How did it get there? A man fighting for his life doesn’t pick up his assailant’s ring and stick it in his pocket. And if Havloc killed Drogo he wouldn’t have put it there.’
‘What difference does it make?’ said Paulet crossly.
‘Don’t you see? The ring is no proof. Drogo could have picked it up anywhere, or someone else could have put it there. It proves nothing!’
‘He’s right,’ said Cigony. ‘The jury must ignore the ring.’ He turned to them. ‘D’you understand, you lot? Forget the bloody ring, it’s not proof. Now, young woman,’ to Alis, ‘it’s your turn. A-a-a-cha! He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve.
Overruled on the ring, the coroner stood firm against allowing Alis’s evidence. He’d heard her story earlier that morning, at the constable’s request, and didn’t believe a word of it.
‘She cannot be heard here. Women have no standing under the law,’ he said loftily.
‘She will bear witness on oath that she saw and talked to her father after Havloc had gone,’ the constable offered.
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