The Wicked and the Just

by J. Anderson Coats

  “That filthy swine,” I mutter as Pluver seizes the ragpicker’s mangy hood and grinds it underfoot with one elegant boot. “Someone ought to teach him to study his lessons.”

  At my elbow, Gwinny snorts softly. “Will not happen.”

  I turn to her, chin high. “It should.”

  “What do you care?” Her voice is bitter like wine too soon from the cask.

  “Justice,” I say firmly.

  Gwinny squints at me for a long moment ere she snorts again. “Mayhap. But given by who? You?”

  I match her cool tone. “Mayhap.”

  She’s fighting a smile, and it makes me want to slap her senseless. “You. Right. We’ll see.”

  And Gwinny’s off through the crowd like a hearthcat on the hunt, past shoulders and bundles toward Pluver, who is upending the poor ragpicker’s cart. She glances over her shoulder and smirks as if she’s caught me playing with dolls. Then she puts herself before Pluver and asks loudly if he’s yet amerced a one-eyed brewster whose ale is watered and not up to scratch, and worse, has no license from the borough.

  And it hits me—Gwinny is distracting him. She’s daring me to teach him a lesson, as I said I would.

  My father does not want to see the inside of Justice Court again.

  But there’s no filthy swine who deserves justice more than Pluver, and Gwinny will have to swallow that smirk.

  I know just how to do it.

  I circle wide, darting through the crowd and craning my neck, pretending to hunt for someone. Gwinny slants only one glance at me, then fixes her eyes on Pluver and raises her voice. Soon I’m behind Pluver, and his yellow-turd hat slides back on his greasy head as he aims gestures at Gwinny.

  It won’t really be stealing. He’ll get his foolish hat back. Eventually.

  In one motion, I rise on tiptoe, wick the hat from the filthy swine’s fat head, and whirl it beneath my cloak as if I’m adjusting the drape. Then I move away as though I’m still hunting for someone, craning my neck and seeming peeved.

  It’s a few moments ere Pluver realizes he’s bareheaded in a crowd of fairgoers, but by that time I’m watching from a good stone’s throw.

  Gwinny flings her hands up as if she’s lost patience with Pluver, then stomps into the crowd. Pluver is patting his head and glancing around like a chicken with too much seed. He kicks at the mud and peers behind baskets and carts, all the while touching his head as if the hat will reappear through sorcery.

  The ragman grins like a schoolboy as he rights his cart and scoops up sopping rags.

  When Gwinny appears at my elbow, I move my cloak just enough that she can see the hat’s fat yellow crown. She barely looks at it, though. She’s staring at the ground, brow in knots, jaw working.

  “You did it,” she finally murmurs, as if I gave her a month off with double wages. “One of your own. And you did it.”

  “Not one of mine.” I nod us toward the city gates, away from the scene Pluver’s making. “Justice for those who deserve it.”

  When we pass a massive dull-eyed hog tethered to a cart, I jam the levelooker’s hat over the hog’s ears and keep walking.

  “Right enough,” Gwinny mutters, “but how will anyone know the difference?”

  I laugh outright. “Not by the smell!”

  We move through every single handswidth of the fair. Gwinny isn’t afraid to walk past the shady stalls that abut the city wall, the ones with goods of dubious provenance and therefore the best prices. She isn’t even shocked that I suggest it. She doesn’t protest that it isn’t safe.

  I suspect she wouldn’t be afraid of climbing the city walls, either.

  The sun is burnished and falling ere Gwinny and I return to the townhouse. Our shadows run out before us, tall and wispy like the banners of an invading army. Two faceless girl-shapes, heads lumpy from piled plaits, gowns fluttering about their feet like massive butterflies. They are so alike that betimes I must glance to be sure it’s still Gwinny at my elbow, and not Alice or Agnes or Emmaline de Coucy.

  Even though it’s frigid in the workroom, I’m spinning before the window and ignoring my father. He’s being completely unreasonable, denying me permission to go nutting. He says it’s too wet and I might fall ill, but he says it while glancing at the blackthorn cudgel that’s still propped in a corner.

  Honestly, you’d think he’s forgotten that the sheriff gave the ringleaders of that scene in county court a se’ennight on the gatehouse floor to study their lessons.

  “Iiiiiiit’s of a fair young maaaaaaaiden who’s walking in the wood,” I sing, badly, at the top of my voice so it will echo into the hall where my father is. “Her voice was so mel-o-di-ous, it charmed him where he—Oh, hey, Papa.”

  “Hay is for horses,” he growls, gripping the doorframe. “What are you doing?”

  “Singing.” I smile and let my whorl spin. “Like Paul and Silas did while they were in gaol.”

  “They also prayed,” my father replies through his teeth. “Try that. And you’re not in gaol.”

  “Am I not? Can I go nutting, then?”

  My father is growing steadily redder. “You’re leagues too old to be fooling with such childish things.”

  “Fine.” I tease out more woolen fibers. In a fortnight he will tell me I’m not old enough to go Catherning with the women, even though Mistress Glover already said over the fence and ten thousand bobbing blond heads that I could join her and Mistress Sandys and Mistress Pole.

  My father’s bootsteps clump down the corridor. I give him time to pour some ale and settle before the fire and let Salvo curl against his feet.

  Then I warble, “For if you stay too laaaaaaate to hear the plowboy siiiiiiiiing, you may have a young faaaaaaarmer to nurse up in the—”

  The front door slams hard enough to shake the shutters. My father storms past, and by the look of him he’s heading to the Boar’s Head.

  “Spring,” I finish softly, and I let the whorl twist back and forth like a hanged man.

  I enter the lady de Coucy’s solar and drop my backside on the uncushioned bench reserved for me, but the lady drags me up by the wrist. She cannot believe I just shuffled into her presence like a plow horse after everything she’s been trying to teach me.

  “On my first day, you said my walk was wrong,” I protest, and immediately wish I could have it back because it’s not well-mannered in the slightest and the last thing I need is my father wroth with me when I’m trying to get him to buy me a new gown and all he can speak of is how we’re going to eat this winter.

  The lady puts one hand to her temple as if pained. At length she snaps her eyes up and demands, “What would you do if John de Havering walked through that door right now?”

  She’s regarding me so intently that I know she means to trap me. Should you behave toward a Crown official as if he’s a borough official, God help you. Should you address someone as “my lord” instead of “your Grace,” you may as well dump a privy bucket over his head.

  Behind her mother’s back, Emmaline catches my eye, then inclines her head and makes a tiny curtsey.

  “Er . . . curtsey?”

  The lady de Coucy’s brows come down. “Do you even know who John de Havering is?”

  I parse and parse. Surely my father has talked about him, mayhap even invited him to our house. Is he the sheriff? One of the other officers of charge? Surely not the constable of the castle—

  “Oh, saints!” The lady groans and flings her arms wide. “He’s only the justiciar of the Principality of North Wales, you ignorant girl! By the Virgin, I know not how you’ll ever manage this if you’re such a lackwit that you cannot even remember the simplest things.”

  “Mother, please!” Emmaline tugs on the lady’s sleeve. “She’s really trying! Mayhap all she needs is a little more help. I can go to her house and—”

  “No!” The lady de Coucy rounds on her like a mastiff. “No, you’ll not be seen . . . Sit down, sweeting. And you.” She turns to me with knuckles upraised, but
at length she lowers her arm and regards me as if I’m a sodden kitten that’s just been sick in her lap. “No. It’s not your fault. Poor motherless thing. It’s not your fault you were raised in a byre by a ham-handed oaf.”

  If John de Havering walked through that door right now, I’d spit on him just to see the look on this shrill harridan’s face.

  She’s naming borough and Crown officials, and she gives me such an eyestab that I echo them after her in as frosty a tone as I dare. Because my father may be a ham-handed oaf, but I’ll not have it said that he raised a lackwit who is not clever and brave enough to hoodwink a shrew with vaporheaded compliance.

  Sacks appear one by one in our shed. They’re full of milled barley and wheat and oats. I ask my father about them. He says the millers give him grain as part of his office of charge.

  The millers must like him mightily if they gave up a share of the thumb’s depth they’ve wrung from everyone else.

  IT darkens earlier now that the season has changed. Mayhap the millers will be more accommodating, now that it’s harder to be seen.

  Knuckles against the door. And wait.

  The Porth Mawr miller peers out. “You again.”

  Hold up the sack without a word.

  He puts out his hand for the penny, for my se’ennight’s worth of sweat.

  Jab the coin into his hand.

  The miller leaves the door ajar while he clunks about within. Then he thrusts out the sack, and it sways in his meaty grip like a wrung-neck chicken.

  The sack is light. As if it’s empty. Peek in. There’s barely a dusting.

  “Th-this isn’t half what my penny brings.” My voice is low and raw.

  The miller spits. “It’s what your penny brings now, after that worthless harvest. What will you do, call the Watch?” He laughs, ugly. “Off with you.”

  Raise my voice. “Give me my due.”

  “God rot your filthy soul, you ungrateful—”

  Something hits my back hard and I’m pushed into the mill and harsh commands echo and feet scuffle in straw and my sack gets ripped from my hand and I’m face-first against the wall, gasping for breath.

  A forearm across my shoulders and a hand at my lower back hold me pinned. Limewashed wattles gouge my cheek.

  “Right, then, miller. Is this girl a burgess, pray tell, or are you trading on an unlawful day? And after sundown?” A cough of laughter. “Even better.”

  The arm at my shoulders pivots and a hand reaches beneath my underarm and cups my tit. Hot breath dampens my ear. Nipple gets pinched. Rubbed.

  “What else can I amerce you for?” Heavy bootsteps clump across the room. “Will I find sawdust in these sacks?”

  Something smashes. The miller cries out in dismay. Then there’s a heavy sound, like a quartermeasure sack hitting the floor, and laughter. Several men, including the one pinning me.

  The miller will get a fine. English will give me irons and time on the gatehouse floor. Or worse.

  “I’ve done naught wrong,” the miller says, but his voice quavers beneath a try at strength.

  More laughter. Whoever’s holding me rubs his groin against my backside, slow and deliberate. My hipbones grind into the wattle. He grunts softly.

  “I believe I’ll let the constable decide what you’ve done. He’ll taste this flour and—”

  “Saints, this sack of flour has opened, my lord.” The miller’s voice is shaky. “I have no use for it. Why do you not, er, dispose of it for me? I would be in your debt.”

  Grip stray strands of wattle. Press my forehead against the wall. His grunting grows louder and the hand on my tit squeezes and rubs.

  “Come. This mill is in order. Except for that open sack. Leverdon, take it to my shed.”

  Wince at one last grind of hips as he rocks away. Footsteps echo, and there’s a whuffle of door.

  “Whore, this is your fault! Show your face here again and I’ll make you sorry!”

  The miller seizes my collar and arm, gripping so tightly I cry out. Stumble out the door as he throws me.

  Land, hard, on rocky ground. Lie crumpled there a long moment. Then struggle up and limp home.

  Full dark now. Empty belly. Empty hands.

  Gruffydd pushes roughly through the steading’s doorway. “Dafydd’s with me. Don’t even start, hear?”

  Bristle at my little brother ere I get a look at Dafydd. His face is raw and bruised, and he limps inside while Gruffydd hovers at the curtain, peering out.

  Blink and blink and finally find my voice. “Wh-what happened?”

  “I was well met last night,” Dafydd growls. “Hauled out of bed and cudgeled something fierce. My door kicked in. My whole place sacked. Thatch everywhere.”

  “Jesu, why?”

  Dafydd smirks. “My prospective neighbors within the walls wish to inform me that continuing to petition the English king for a burgage in Caernarvon is an endeavor to be conducted at my peril.”

  Fight to stay calm. Know not what else he expected. Especially after what happened at county court.

  “You cannot stay.” Say it kindly, but brooking no refusal. “They watch this place. Because of Da. They’d love an excuse.”

  “I’ll certes put that in my next petition to the king. ‘Your Grace, mayhap it would interest you to know that the officials who govern in your name visit the sins of the father upon his innocent children.’ It’ll go right after ‘It troubles me to report that Caernarvon’s gatehouse is enchanted. Upon leaving, men are rendered invisible for a fortnight, then turn up fatally beaten. At least, that’s what your bailiffs would have you believe.’”

  “Please.” Regret my soft words already. Giving Dafydd anything is like oil on fire, and nay is easier said in blade-edged tones. “If they find you here, we’ll all wish for time on the gatehouse floor.”

  Dafydd moves to rise, but Gruffydd at the doorway gestures him down.

  “Nothing yet,” Gruffydd reports. “Mayhap we lost them. That’s enough, Gwen. Now’s not the time.”

  Fold my arms. “Oh, come now, it’s not the first time the burgesses thrashed him, is it? Nor will it be the last. And I’ve no liking for this trick—”

  “Gwenhwyfar.” Gruffydd’s voice is low and fierce. He’s angled in the doorway like a beast in the furze. “Enough.”

  They’re both muddy to the knees and covered in brush. Tense like foxes at the horn. Neither of them is smug.

  This is not a trick.

  Let out a long breath and summon brook-naught words, but one sidelong look at Dafydd and my voice betrays me with its catch. “The English will not tolerate your antics forever.”

  Dafydd straightens. “So be it. It’s unlawful, what they’re doing, and someone has to stand against them or the king will never know.”

  It makes no sense to stand when it will change nothing.

  Gruffydd leans inside, eyes wild. “Go. Now. They’re coming up the hill.”

  Dafydd runs a hand down my cheek ere I can pull away. His touch is warm and gentle, curse him.

  By the time English cudgel into my house, Dafydd is gone into the greenwood while Gruffydd and I stand elbow to elbow, bracing to be questioned.

  MY FATHER is having winter firewood loaded into our rearyard. Cartload after cartload, and all I can hear is clumping hooves and blasphemy and the clatter of wood on wood.

  I have never made a more crooked seam, not even ere the age of reason.

  They must be quieter.

  I stomp through the hall and into the rearyard to make them. The back door rattles on its leather hinges when I kick it open.

  It’s him. Of course it is. The one who looks. The one I made study his lessons, right in the middle of High Street.

  He’s chopping a massive heap of wood. With one smooth swing of his ax, he splits a piece, then reaches for another chunk while rolling the ax behind his shoulder. By the time his ax is upraised, the next piece of wood is on the block and ready for splitting. Again and again, fluid as a carole dance.


  The last time we met, he was not sorry. He stood there in the High Street not being sorry for my gown or my convenience or his own brazen behavior in defiance of the king, who asked us to come here to teach them to behave.

  Today he will be sorry.

  I hook my hands behind my back and saunter toward him, swaying my hips and pushing my chest out. I stand just out of the way and watch him swing the ax up and bring it down.

  He glances my way, startles like a cat, then whips his eyes back to his task.

  He does not look. He dares not look.

  And there is naught he can do for it.

  “G’morn,” I say sweetly.

  “Better to you, demoiselle.” He does not break rhythm or turn in my direction.

  “What are you called?”

  The ax comes down crossways, glancing off the chopping block. As he recovers and hoists the blade onto his shoulder, he mutters, “Gruffydd ap Peredur, demoiselle.”

  “Griff-ith,” I repeat in my flattest English way.

  He grimaces, shakes his head the smallest bit, then brings the ax whistling down.

  I peer at him as if he’s a hairy insect in my porridge. Let’s see how he finds being looked at.

  Under my scrutiny, his cuts become steadily less even and betimes he must chop the same piece twice. Betimes the ax must rest on his shoulder while he fumbles for another piece of wood.

  “Begging your pardon, demoiselle,” Griffith says to his chopping block, “but is there something you’ve come for?”

  “Not particularly.” I idle around to his other elbow, all hips and teases of ankle. “I’ve a right to be in my own yard, do I not?”

  He scrubs a wrist over his eyes while the ax weighs down his shoulder. “Right aye, demoiselle.”

  I let him chop several more pieces, reveling in every wavering upswing and crooked cleave. One piece he must cut thrice, and he nearly crops a finger doing so.

  “One reason we’re here is to teach your lot to behave,” I muse. “The king would have it so. And you’re always looking at me. It’s really quite rude. As if you really haven’t studied your lessons at all.”