Winston nodded and said, “In particular he needs to know that the most powerful of them all will keep his word.”
Our errand in East Anglia suddenly took on an even greater importance.
7
I slept tolerably well. Sigurd moved around some in the bed, but an elbow in the side was all it took to get him to settle down. Herward was worse. His snoring would drown out even Winston’s, but Bjarne quieted him with a few kicks. In the middle of the darkest hour, I heard Herward grunt, mutter something incoherent, and then roll over heavily to the sound of his bedmate’s assurance that there could be “more where that came from.”
In the morning, I took my morning piss by the paddock, where my red gelding greeted me with his friendly nicker. I was on my way to the wide washbasin behind the inn when two of my traveling companions rounded the corner of the building.
Arnulf had his hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, and just as I ran into them, I heard him say that the matter would have to wait, since today was about getting his rightful money.
Sigurd blushed at the sight of me, stammered that he wouldn’t be put off for much longer, and then turned on his heel while Arnulf confided to me that young people had no patience.
“Patience is a virtue, they say, but I believe it depends on the context,” I replied casually. He didn’t bite at my bait. Instead he nodded and then walked away.
After I scrubbed myself thoroughly and joined my companions at the long table, I became aware of my gnawing hunger and dug into the porridge with satisfaction. Unlike the previous day’s, it was conspicuously supple from fat, and I washed it down with a good, malty ale.
Our travel companions joined us at the table, and Arnulf was in a lavish mood. He flirted with the wenches who served the porridge and ale, and laughed at almost every comment. He burped and wiped the porridge grease from the corners of his mouth, then smiled at Herward.
“A good day begins with a good meal,” he crowed and continued, “and it will look lighter for us this evening than yesterday.”
Herward nodded while Bjarne dryly stated that the evenings always got lighter in the spring, and the rest of us agreed.
Guards stood at the bridge over the river from the southern part of town. The soldiers questioned everyone closely, so only those who had legal matters for the court gained access. While we waited, a town resident who claimed to live behind Saint Peter’s church was turned away, told he would have to come back after the court was adjourned.
Although Alwyn didn’t have any business before the court, he came with the rest of us to be neighborly, as he put it. So Arnulf stepped before the court with a considerable entourage.
Soldiers armed with spears lined the square in front of the church. A platform had been erected in front of the church’s wide front door, and the reeve I’d seen the day before sat there, enthroned on a broad chair. To the right of the platform, six spears stuck into the ground outlined a small square area. To the left, two spears at each end demarcated a rectangle.
The men who had come from throughout the hundred to observe the proceedings stood in a semicircle within the square. The arc of men began halfway down the church wall behind the reeve and ran all the way around to end in the corresponding spot on the other side.
When we arrived, the Hundred Court was hearing a case against a burly farmer, who stood calmly inside the area fenced in by the spears regarding his accusers—two other farmers, who alleged that he had changed the boundary line between their properties.
When the accusers were quiet, Reeve Turstan looked toward the farmer, who claimed he could bring in good men as witnesses that the boundary stone hadn’t been budged, but to the contrary had sat in the same place for as long as anyone could remember.
The reeve looked out over the assembly and asked in a voice accustomed to being heard over the din of battle whether anyone wanted to swear in support of either the accusers’ or the defendant’s account. Three farmers stepped forward.
Once they had sworn in support of the defendant’s words, the reeve asked if anyone wanted to swear for the accusers. This time one lone old man stepped forward and claimed under oath that, based on what his grandfather had told him, the boundary stone had been further in on the accused’s property back during the reign of Æthelstan Half-King. This claim was met by cries from some of the assemblymen that this old man was known for his inability to remember things or think clearly.
The reeve then asked if there was anyone else present who could swear in this case, but when no one stepped forward, the court’s verdict was that the accusers had not supported their case, so the boundary stone was where it should be.
We watched as the reeve heard several other cases, and then it was Arnulf’s turn to step within the six spears. In a firm voice he called out that he had a case against Darwyn, son of Delwyn, involving the rape of a previously untouched slave maid.
Turstan looked out over the assembly and asked Darwyn to step forward. There was a commotion as a few men pushed their way through.
A nobleman’s lad of scarcely twenty with blond, well-groomed hair, and broad cheekbones and shoulders stepped into the spot for the accused. He wore expensive, well-made clothes. His sword, whose hilt was unadorned, hung from a silver-draped belt, which also contained a horn-handled knife.
An older version of the lad took up position behind him. This man was wider around the waist and shoulders, with a neck that would have been at home on a bull. The older man had a long, gray-tinged mustache, and a look that said he would not yield to anyone.
The reeve acknowledged his and his son’s presence with a polite nod and bade Arnulf to present his case, which he did in an exemplary fashion and—to my surprise—without allowing his hunger for silver to shine through at any point.
Arnulf succinctly recounted the story we had previously heard in his hall. Then he explained that he was demanding not just a fine for the crime, but also reimbursement for the loss of the girl’s virginity. At this, Delwyn’s left hand dropped down to the leather pouch that hung from his sword belt.
Arnulf’s words were met with silence from the assemblymen. Not the brooding, ominous silence that someone who unjustly accuses another would encounter, but the silence of men who are familiar with the case and find it as uninteresting as it is obvious.
Turstan turned directly to Darwyn and asked in a bored voice, “And does the accused acknowledge his guilt?”
Arnulf’s grin—no doubt a result of envisioning the silver he would soon be awarded—disappeared quickly when Darwyn loudly stated that he was not guilty of the accusation.
I looked from Arnulf to Darwyn, but it was his father’s expression that struck me. Disbelief and uncertainty fought for control of his face. Then Delwyn took half a step back and stood, his face stony, while the reeve’s voice cut through the agitated murmur among the assemblymen: “And you have people willing to testify under oath to this?”
“Under oath, yes,” Darwyn said, sneering at Arnulf. For his part, Arnulf’s red face revealed his confusion. Darwyn called someone named Bardolf, and a nobleman’s son stepped forward.
He hardly looked old enough to use a weapon, but a sword hung at his hip, and his voice was firm as he swore his oath and attested that he knew Darwyn was not guilty of the charge directed against him.
Bardolf’s words had scarcely died away before a commotion rose behind the accused. Delwyn, who had been standing behind his son, turned on his heel and left the court area accompanied by three men.
Turstan’s lips curled. “And you, Arnulf,” he said. “You have men who will swear for you?”
Herward, Bjarne, and Sigvald stepped forward and swore their oaths that on the day in question, which they stated, at the specific location, which they described, Darwyn had raped the slave girl, Guthild.
“And that is your testimony?” The reeve’s lips curled again.
Arnulf nodded.
Turstan rose from his chair and looked out over the assembly. “Are there any others who can sw
ear under oath in this case?”
He waited a moment, but when no one stepped forward, he declared that thanks to Bardolf’s sworn corroboration, Darwyn had refuted the accusation and therefore the case was dead and considered dropped.
Winston, Alfilda, and I expected Arnulf to be furious at the judge, to scream about injustice, and to lament the loss of the compensation he had been so sure he would receive. But none of that happened.
He allowed himself to be led away from the court in disbelief by Bjarne and Sigvald. He followed them through the rows of assemblymen, who parted to let him through. He remained silent until we reached the tavern. Then he shook off Bjarne’s and Sigvald’s hands and declared, his voice cracking, that this judgment nullified all agreements.
“This injustice undoes everything; no pact or agreement can persist when the law permits this.” Arnulf grasped at the air, as if the law were a thing he could capture. He looked at his companions, who watched him in silence. Sigurd was pale with agitation; he was still young enough to feel the injustice viscerally. Herward bit his lip, Bjarne sighed thoughtfully, and Sigvald shook his head with sorrow. Only Alwyn seemed unaffected and mumbled that you had to be prepared for things like this if you wanted to go face-to-face with big fish. That, he said, was why he had never brought a case against anyone.
Arnulf said that he was going to ride home, but then the others said they might as well see what the market had to offer since they were here. After a brief discussion Arnulf let himself be convinced to remain in Thetford until the next day. He reluctantly joined his companions in a visit to the market.
The rest of us headed into the tavern, where we found a quiet corner to drink our tankards of ale. Alfilda drank thirstily and then set her tankard down with a little clunk. “Farmers always seem to lose when they go up against noblemen,” she remarked.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Winston beat me to it. “In this case only when noblemen are willing to perjure themselves. I’ve been to many assembly meetings, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen someone swear falsely.”
Alfilda vigorously shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. Noblemen use the power they have.”
“True.” I met her eyes in agreement. “But swearing a false oath before the court is rare. It makes a man a nithing, a weak, unmanly coward. So, it basically never happens.”
“And yet we just saw it happen,” Alfilda retorted. She was angry, her cheeks pale.
Winston placed his hand on hers, but she brushed him away.
“Alfilda,” Winston said, biting his lip. “Those two have made their bed. Eventually they’re going to have to lie in it.”
I saw her look of skepticism and explained, “No one has any doubt that Darwyn and Bardolf perjured themselves. You heard Turstan’s voice. You watched Delwyn walk away when his son brought shame to him and his kin. Delwyn was as convinced of Darwyn’s guilt as everyone else. I saw Delwyn reach for his money pouch. I almost had the impression he was willing to pay before the case even got started.”
“So why did they do it?” Alfilda asked.
“Darwyn and Bardolf are too young to realize what they’ve done.” Winston tugged on his nose. “A man must swear to something if he is sure. Take the old man in the case of the boundary stone. True, he may be feeble and forgetful, but he was convinced that his memory was correct. And I’m sure you remember the case in Oxford when a murderer stood there on his own before the king’s meeting because everyone knew he was guilty, so no one would swear with him.
“That’s justice: honest men’s oaths are true and binding, because dishonest men will be found out and shunned by their neighbors and associates. There is no worse word that a man can be labeled with than the one Halfdan just used: nithing.
“But those two young pups don’t get it. They think their noble lineage gives them rights because it gives them power. That boy had the power to rape that girl. Lord knows, many noblemen have abused their power, and more will follow. But at the Hundred Court, free men speak the truth because truth is the basis of law.
“Believe me, I wish I were a mouse beneath Delwyn’s floor today so that I could hear what he has to say to his son. I’d hazard to guess that by nightfall Darwyn will have realized that he lost the respect not only of all decent men but also of his own father today.”
Winston took a drink.
After a pause, Alfilda quietly asked, “So, Arnulf lost his right to the money. But what about the girl? What is her right? Or does a slave not have any rights?”
“I believe our young nobleman here can better answer that than I,” Winston said with a glance at me.
I cleared my throat and began, “The girl’s rights were trounced by a money-hungry master. Yes, slaves have rights. The law protects them by stipulating a fine for their rape or murder, for example. If Arnulf hadn’t been so greedy for silver, he would have killed Darwyn when he found him committing the rape. With three witnesses, he would have been well within his rights when he came upon that whelp with his pants down and his cock in the girl. So one could say that Arnulf’s rights were trounced by the lie Darwyn told today, and the slave girl’s rights were trounced by a master who chose to seek monetary damages instead of revenge.”
Alfilda studied my face with her gray eyes. Then she stated, “You would have killed him.”
It wasn’t a question. All the same, I replied: “Yes, I would have killed him.”
8
Rumor of Darwyn’s and Bardolf’s perjury had spread through the marketplace like a fire.
I’d left Winston and Alfilda and gone off to be alone. And everywhere I went the topic of conversation was the morning’s court business. I didn’t hear a single voice raised in defense of the two young noblemen.
To the contrary, everyone denounced them; even a poor peddler, whose entire inventory consisted of three bundles that could fit in his pockets, spat on the ground at the mention of them. A benevolent-looking young man dressed like a priest lectured some women that the Lord himself had told people not to bear false witness against a neighbor, so old English law was just as divine as the one Moses had brought down from the mountain.
I strolled down one marketplace walkway after another, then turned onto a random street, followed it to the end, and wandered back into another narrow passage, glancing at the girls and the wares on display without seeing either a wench or a market stall that enticed me.
As the bells chimed midday, I recognized the man I’d met in the same ale stand the day before and took a seat across from him. When the crone who worked there came scurrying over, I asked for a pitcher of ale and noted that she had not grown any friendlier.
“So, Erwin Mintmaster must be a generous master,” I said over the table as my ale was placed in front of me.
My black-haired acquaintance, who hadn’t looked up until now, seemed confused, wondering if he knew me and who I was. He furrowed his brow for a second, and then recognition came into his eyes as he apparently remembered our short meeting the day before. But he raised his eyebrows questioningly, as if wondering what I’d meant by my comment.
“Well, he gives you so many opportunities to enjoy your ale,” I explained in a lighthearted tone.
He responded, “Erwin is a witness at the court.” His voice did not sound easygoing and approachable, as mine had.
I understood. Striking the king’s coins involves stringent standards: No coin may be struck unless the mintmaster himself is present, since he is personally responsible for ensuring that all coins are pure and unadulterated. Work has to be paused any time an errand calls him away from the workshop.
“Nothing serious, I hope.” I brushed aside his dismissive attitude.
“The mintmaster is not bringing the case. He is the king’s trusted man and therefore has to attend all matters presented at the court.” You could hear the journeyman’s pride in his master’s importance.
I made my voice sound impressed: “And you are his senior journeyman?”
&nb
sp; “His journeyman.”
Although Thetford was a significant town, its mint was not as large as London’s or Winchester’s.
“A trusted position.”
His response was a nod.
“My name is Halfdan.”
“You said that yesterday.”
Ah, so he had been listening.
“And I work for Winston the Illuminator.”
Now he looked at me in astonishment. “Work for?”
I stifled a smile. Clearly, he’d thought I was a thane and had been reluctant to open up too much to me because he was uncertain why a nobleman would show so much interest in him.
“I’m his man, yes, while I wait to come into my own.”
But he didn’t care about me or my lost entitlements. Winston’s name was obviously familiar to him.
“Winston the Illuminator, who illustrated the Ely monastery’s book about Saint Etheldreda?”
That certainly sounded like something Winston might have done and since my new acquaintance seemed impressed, I said, “The same.”
“A very handsome book. I saw it last winter when my master and I had business in Ely.” He sat up straighter and smoothed his apron. “My name’s Harold.”
Then he seemed to loosen up and gladly accepted a tankard from my pitcher. His more relaxed manner was not due to my winning nature, however. Instead it seemed to stem from knowing that he was with someone close to Winston.
Naturally his first question had to do with what had brought us to Thetford. He bought my story about the work awaiting my master in Saint Edmund’s Town as well as my explanation that we were stopping in Thetford so that Winston could stock up on paints and other materials. After that he started asking about Winston’s work and seemed sincerely puzzled that I couldn’t answer his questions, but he lit up when I promised that I would introduce him to Winston so that he could ask him in person. And he was willing to answer all of my questions.
His master obviously confided in him, because he knew all sorts of things a general journeyman tradesman normally wouldn’t.
A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series) Page 5
