The Wicked and the Just

by J. Anderson Coats

  I look down at my clean blue hem. My vellet hem. My mother’s hem.

  I am sweatier than a pig in Purgatory.

  For all that the privileges of Caernarvon are costing me, they’d best pay off to the hilt.

  It’s hotter than perdition. I have been walking forever. If I were a saint, I’d be a martyr by now. Saint Cecily, scorched to death on a forced march.

  I trudge behind my father, step after miserable step. My slippers are ruined beyond salvage, so I labor to keep my hem off the ground. There is less mud out here, but the vellet across my arm feels like a cartload of masonry bricks.

  We seem to be walking a circuit around the town walls. We keep passing these bits of quarry-stone poking out of the ground like teeth in an old man’s head.

  By all that’s holy, why must this town be so large?

  Someone falls into step at my side. A wineskin appears before me, hovering like some strange trick of a heat-addled mind.

  If it is a trick of my mind, it’s one that pleases me. He’s got hair like a blackbird’s wing and a careless smile and the most charming dimple.

  My hands are shaking, but I take the wineskin and raise it to my lips. No wine comes out. He laughs and uncorks the bung, then offers it again.

  If God Almighty had any mercy at all, He’d let me melt through the desolate wasteland below my feet ere making me face this comely stranger before whom I’ve just made a fool of myself.

  “Thirsty work, this,” he says, “and you seem thirstier than most. Would I had something for you to ride.”

  The wine is bitter and warm, but I drink it so I’ll not have to look at him, or speak. Then I hand the wineskin quickly back.

  My father has noticed my new companion and drops back to take my elbow, which he holds much too tightly. “Edward Mercer. A health to you.”

  “Oh, come now,” my wine-saint replies. “You must call me Ned if we’re to be neighbors.”

  He says it to my father, but he looks right at me.

  My father snorts so quietly that I’m certain he’s merely clearing dust from his throat.

  My wine-saint is still smiling at me. My father would flay me alive should I call a man I’m not wed to by his Christian name, but my father would also not want me to be ill-mannered.

  So I smile at the mercer. At Ned.

  “And welcome to the privileges, Edgeley. How does it feel to be a friend of the king?”

  My father worms his way between Ned and me. My elbow is fiery where the vellet scratches.

  “It’ll feel better when those privileges begin to take effect. I put down quite a sum on murage just getting my household through the gate.”

  “Well, you’re free of those tolls now. The king does not wish to burden his friends here with such bothersome details. We’ll let the Welsh maintain the walls and roads, right?”

  “So there is actually some advantage to being here?” I ask, partly because I’m interested but mostly because Ned will have an excuse to speak to me directly. “It’s not just where all the castoffs and vagabonds end up?”

  Ned winks at me and my father’s hand on my elbow tightens enough to burn. “Why, demoiselle, you couldn’t drag me back to York, God’s honest truth! I can charge their lot what I like and they must pay, for they’re not permitted to trade outside the Caernarvon market. Not even an egg can pass from one neighbor to another without the both of them being dragged into borough court and amerced.”

  Saints, but Ned has a shivery smile. I cannot look upon him without feeling all hot and sloshy.

  “The sheriff of Caernarvon cannot even peek beneath the canvas on any of my loads, and all it costs me is keeping this place safe, which I’d do anyway;” Ned half draws a short sword at his belt and adds, “There isn’t the Welshman born who’d dare touch me.”

  My father shifts enough to block Ned and loudly asks how the borough enforces trading restrictions. Ned speaks of chalk and levelookers and county court in a voice smooth and mellow like a summer evening. Even so, listening to them is tedious. Would that they would stop talking about tolls and start talking about something important. Like whether I can have another drink from Ned’s wineskin, and when this barbarous death-march will be over.

  My father is now a burgess of Caernarvon. Friend of the king. The mayor leads the other burgesses through our house in a long, meandering line while bearing a rather heinous-looking mace over his shoulder.

  Ned is among them, all leather boots and a finespun woolen mantle. He winks at me and I get a bellyful of shiveries.

  My father shows the burgesses his sword and falchion. He shows them the sacks of barley and millet, the salted meat, the bins of peas and turnips.

  The mayor approves. My father’s stores are sufficient and his weapons sharp. The burgesses give a rousing cheer and my father grins as if he just made peerage or sainthood. They clap him on the back and paw his shoulders and crowd around until I cannot tell him from any of the others.

  THE brat sets me to cleaning her blue gown. Mud clings like stolen goods to a thief’s hand.

  Off they went, the pair of them. The master and the brat. Back they came clad all about in town privilege.

  Knew it would happen. It’s why they came here. It’s why any of them come here.

  But watching them ride upstreet made what happened at Pencoed yesterday and nevermore all in one gasp. Horseback English, a decree from their king, and my first taste of foreign rule went down bitter and clear.

  One more burgess. One more friend of the king. One more stone in those purple-banded walls.

  The mud has worked into the very weave of the wool. It’ll take lye and scrubbing to bring it clean.

  AS A BURGESS of Caernarvon, my father has been endowed by the king with some cropland. It’s without the walls and comes with Welsh people to till it. It’s been sown since March with oats, so all that’s left to do is weed and chase away crows. That job is done by a sullen little boy whose only words in English are bastard, whoreson, and rot in Hell.

  I go with my father to look at the land. He stands hands on hips and gazes over the greening yardlands as if they’re Eden. “Of all the privileges that come with this place, sweeting, land without tenure is the cream.”

  “I like Edgeley better,” I say.

  “I owed service for Edgeley,” my father replies. “I had to be ready to go armed where my lord bade me at any time, for any reason. This land I hold of the king for twelvepence a year. That’s all. It’s that simple.”

  I still like Edgeley better, but my father is grinning so big as he walks among the rows of plants and ruffles their leaves as he might Salvo’s ears that I say naught.

  Mistress Tipley is hollering at me to help with the brewing. My shutters are closed so I can pretend not to hear. I tiptoe down the stairs, past the hall—where my father would notice me and bid me go help the old crone—and out into the glorious sunshine.

  Down the street I stride, dodging puddles and horse apples. It’s a fine day for justice, and I cannot wait to taste it.

  Now that my father has the privileges, I will have what is due me.

  There’s the shop, just as I remember it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for se’ennights. I’ll march up, rap at the counter, and demand what’s mine. The merchant will be vengeful but pale, but all that’s good and right is on my side and he’ll reluctantly pull my altar cloth from behind the counter and pause just a moment with sublime regret ere putting it in my deserving hands.

  I will tell him how fortunate he is that I am such a good Christian that I will not haul him before Court Baron for theft, and he will gibber in gratitude for his good name. It will be most embarrassing for him, with all of Caernarvon watching.

  I cannot wait.

  The awning is down, but the sign is different. It’s not the merchants’ ship. It’s a spool of thread and a needle. A tailor’s shop.

  I freeze in the gutter, my hem in the mud. I check and recheck. Yes, it’s the right stall, between the empty b
uilding and the house with faded crates full of dead herbs.

  An amiable redhead comes to the shop window-counter and asks if he can help me with something.

  “Wh-where is the merchant?” I ask. “This used to be a merchant’s shop. Where is he?”

  The redhead shrugs. “Gone. One too many unlawful trades. The borough revoked his license. His loss is my gain, though.”

  I turn on my heel. Muddy road is flashing beneath my feet. My fists are stiff at my sides. I round the corner of Shire Hall and knee an illegally kept pig out of my path, then slam our gate hard enough to echo.

  I find my father in the hall and shout, “How could you?”

  My father looks up from a bowl of chestnuts, bewildered. “Do what, now?”

  “He’s gone, he took it with him, and now I’ll never get it back, never, and it’s your fault, Papa. You’re the one who let him go, and I’ll never forgive you for it!”

  “Sweeting, I—”

  “It’s all I had left of them! Now I don’t even have that much! It’s gone forever, just like they are!”

  My father puts aside the bowl. “What are you on about?”

  “My altar cloth,” I sob, and collapse in a weeping heap at his feet. It’s best that I’ll never see Alice and Agnes again, for they’ll never forgive me this.

  There’s a muffled groan, then a heavy shape sinks at my side and there’s a warm weight over my shoulders. My father has put his arm around me and I fall against him, hugging him and sobbing.

  “Forgive me, sweeting,” he says, holding me tight. He smells like leather and dust. I sob harder and hide beneath his arm. “You can make another one, though. A better one.”

  Just because a thing is new doesn’t make it better.

  But I say naught and let him hug me, all pokes of leather and scratchy wool and strong embrace like city walls about my shoulders.

  After Mass, Emmaline de Coucy invites me on an outing.

  She knows a little place where the river pools, where there’s shallow water for wading and a good grassy place for rest and food. She played there often as a child, pretending to be queen of the water sprites with her shift hiked up to her knees.

  Emmaline leans in close when she tells me this, glancing at her parents sidelong even though my father has snared them in a conversation they seem to be reluctantly tolerating.

  There’s nothing I want more than to sniff and tell her not for all the damask in Damascus would I pass one more moment in her wretched golden company than I’m forced to.

  But the air in the townhouse is like curdled cream and everything smells of sweat, and I’m ever so weary of the square of street that’s visible from the workroom window.

  So I agree. Emmaline squeals and claps her hands and bids me meet her by the gates as soon as I’m ready.

  Back home, Mistress Tipley is clarifying lanolin. There’s a massive fire in the rearyard and she’s leaning over a potbellied kettle. Her face is as red as the Adversary’s backside and she’s sweating fit to drown.

  I come into the rearyard to get my shoes from the stoop, and the old cow aims the stirring paddle at me.

  “Here, stir this. I must get more firewood, and the lanolin will burn if it’s not tended.”

  My father has gone to Watch and Ward. He’ll not be back till sundown. I breeze past her toward the greenway as if she’s speaking Welsh.

  Mistress Tipley hisses like a cat. “You don’t think to leave, do you? There are fleeces to roll and wool to comb. They must be ready for the Saint Margaret’s market.”

  I’m already up the greenway and almost in the street when I hear her holler for Gwinny to come take the paddle, and by then it’s too late. She’ll never find me in the crowd.

  Emmaline waits at the gate. A knot of people I don’t recognize stand with her. The man has Emmaline’s flax-colored hair. The women are veiled, but one has a sharp face like a wolfhound, and she curls her lip at me and smirks.

  “Oh, Cecily, I hope you don’t mind,” Emmaline says. “My brother and his wife and our cousin would come with us. And our maids, of course. It’s too nice out to keep the servants inside all day.”

  The maids are elegant girls in plain wimples who stand like statues at a proper distance, hands folded, chins tucked. They hold baskets that smell faintly of bread.

  “Do you not have a maid?” Emmaline asks, peering over both my shoulders. “We can wait for her.”

  “Her?” snickers the wolfhound. “A novi with a maid? Hardly.”

  “Now, cousin, don’t be unkind,” Emmaline says cheerfully to the wolfhound. “Cecily cannot help it if she’s new to the Principality. Not everyone has the good fortune to grow up here.”

  I breathe deep and harness all my hating. I’m to be pleasant to Emmaline de Coucy, and that means not taking her wretched cousin down a peg.

  “As a matter of fact, I do have a maid,” I reply, just short of haughtily. “She’s poorly today. I bade her stay abed.”

  Emmaline is all concern. “Summer chills are the worst. We’ll pray for her health. Shall we go, then?”

  I nod. Best get it over with. I trudge like a penitent a pace behind them, just in front of the maids.

  Without the walls, big spans of green open up. Naught but plots of summer-bright crops stretching out for leagues, all endowed to burgesses. Emmaline directs us across the mill bridge and tells us to follow the river.

  Emmaline’s brother is called William, and he is tall and long-limbed with a friendly, crooked smile. He inclines his head politely and asks, “How do you find Caernarvon?”

  “We found it same as anyone, I reckon,” I reply, a little bewildered. “The road from Chester that runs along the water.”

  The wolfhound snorts. “Lackwit. Any fool knows how you find it. He means how do you like it?”

  My whole face is hot and scorchy. I would give anything short of my immortal soul to reply to this viper as she deserves, but I’m to be pleasant to Emmaline de Coucy.

  I turn away from Emmaline’s wretched cousin. To William I choke, “Fine. I like it fine.”

  William smiles lazily and paws my shoulder like a mother cat. “Don’t mind Elizabeth. She’s living proof that girls should never learn to read.”

  William’s wife is called Aline. She narrows her eyes at me and then makes a show of taking William’s elbow. Then she glances at Cousin Evilbeth and they trade cruel smiles.

  “We’re almost there.” Emmaline points at a dark smudge ahead. “Look, where those willows are thick.”

  I hurry ahead of the others. Aline says something to Evilbeth as I brush past, and they both giggle.

  Let the hens cackle. I would put my feet in the water.

  It’s shady beneath the willows, dapply-cool. The river moves slowly here and murmurs over round rocks. Even the air feels lighter, and there’s a breeze.

  All at once I’m back at Edgeley, splashing in the creek that turned the mill-wheel and held tiny silver fish that girls could catch in their handkerchiefs if they had patience enough.

  It’s just like home.

  Then I see them.

  Across the stream, half a dozen ragged men in homespun are gathered close like sheep in a storm, their heads bent together.

  I freeze.

  They’re deep in conversation. I cannot hear any words over the stream’s murmur, but their lips are moving.

  “Hey!” William leaps past me like a roebuck, his short sword drawn and brandished. “I’ll see the lot of you in the stocks for a se’ennight!”

  One of the men shouts something in tongue-pull and they scatter in six directions. William is knee-deep in the stream when they’re all out of sight.

  “Bastards,” he mutters as he wades out. He slams his sword into its scabbard and squishes up the bank.

  I crane my neck, but naught remains of the men save swaying branches and trampled mud.

  I hurry to catch up with William. “I agree with you. Welshmen should all be put in the stocks.”

  H
e shrugs, but his face is still dark. “Men who follow the law ought to be left to their business. Those who break it must pay.”

  “Standing on a riverbank is unlawful?” My father certes does not want to see the inside of Justice Court again.

  “It is for Welshmen,” William replies grimly, “should they gather in groups. Twice over, should they be armed. As that lot was.”

  All at once the world seems very large, away from the castle and town walls and armed sentries who incline their heads.

  Emmaline does not seem shaken. She even hums as she spreads a blanket where the grass is dry and bids the maids set out pasties and apple tarts and slices of cold meat and cheese. Piles and piles of everything, straight from the kitchens of Croesus de Coucy.

  I drop to my knees and pick up two pasties and a tart. Evilbeth puffs out her cheeks like a pig. I take a third pasty and stick my tongue out at her ere I can stop myself.

  Aline is still standing, her arms cinched tight as a girdle. “It’s not safe here. Let’s go back.”

  “They’re gone, love,” William tells her. “Half a league from here by now. Welshmen want no part of the law, believe me.”

  “They were here,” Aline insists. “They might come back.”

  William eats a pasty in two bites. “Not today.”

  “You don’t know that. Who can know what they’re capable of?”

  If Gwinny is any indication, the Welsh are quite capable of airing linen and laying fires and scooping dog leavings onto the midden.

  “Come now, Aline,” Emmaline says. “Surely you’ve seen Welshmen ere this. You’ve been staying in Shrewsbury for months.”

  William sighs. “Really, love, Em’s right. You may as well fear the cattle.”

  “You’re cruel to mock me.” Aline wrings her hands in her sleeves. “Both of you. I would go home. Not just Shrewsbury, either. Home to England.”