‘Good morning, men,’ he said jovially, ‘I trust you are ready for me?’
‘Yes, Sir, we are quite ready. Here is the boy’s confession with his mark upon it.’
‘Excellent,’ the Court Jailer was unsurprised; his jailers rarely let him down in these matters. ‘Where is the boy?’ The man looked round and saw the small, despondent figure slumped on the bench. ‘Sit up, boy,’ he said sharply, ‘prisoners are not allowed to rest without permission.’
The Court Jailer now sat down at the table and perused the confession. ‘Come and stand here,’ he gestured to the boy, observing his slow and painful progress with a slight smile. (Perhaps he should examine the boy’s body? The Court Jailer always enjoyed that. But, no, perhaps today there was no time!) He held up the confession paper to the boy’s face: ‘Is this your confession, given without duress?’ Silence. The Second Jailor coughed loudly and was seen to be stroking the stock of a small whip.
‘Yes.’ Barely a whisper.
‘What?’ The Court Jailer sat forward sharply.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Slightly louder.
‘That’s better. Do you have anything else to say?’ The jailers stopped breathing.
The boy’s eyes had a spark of courage burning deeply within. His mouth opened and then: ‘No, Sir.’
The relief of the jailers was expressed in a great explosion of jollification, sending almost visible vortices of gleeful energy around the room. ‘A really skilled job, Sir,’ they said in joyous, deafening tones. ‘You are so skilled in these matters and you exercise them with such great aplomb.’
The Court Jailer smiled thinly and thanked them for their kind words. He would now start to prepare the case for the Court and would return with the date and time in due course. This would not be soon, he warned them, the wheels of justice proceed slowly: ‘There is so much crime to deal with, you see.’
In the midst of all this spontaneous gaiety and congratulation, the stable boy stood forgotten. Head bowed, his slight figure faded to virtual transparency, a grey spectre half in an alternative dimension of hopelessness. However within that unmoving, amorphous body, a mind raced. In a brief moment of pure desperation, he considered throwing himself at the feet of the Court Jailer and pleading his innocence – but this spasm was quieted almost immediately at the prospect of being whipped to a certain and agonising death.
The Court Jailer had gone. The room was transformed into a more relaxed place.
‘Now that we know where we’re going, we’ll need to make sure he doesn’t get sick. He needs to look well-treated for his case in the Court.’ For this reason, the jailers decided that they would keep the stable boy segregated in his single cell. ‘More trouble for us but I suppose it’s for the best,’ they agreed. ‘Maybe he can exercise with some of the other prisoners but we’ll need to keep an eye on him. We don’t want him getting damaged just before his case is heard. The Court Jailer would blame us for that and it would not go well for us.’ They nodded at each other sagely.
Also, the jailers decided that the boy should be given better food than the dreadful meals that were served to the other prisoners. This better nutrition meant that the boy’s body was able to recover from his wounds; it was not too long before his bruising had subsided and his skin healed. However, he had an obvious and permanent scar on his cheek where the Master had struck him many weeks before. He had seen his face in a looking glass and thought the scar might be an advantage to him in his new life:
‘I can always tell them I got it in a knife fight – which I won!’ The boy grinned.
In fact there was another reason why the jailers were being kind to the boy. One evening during their regular evening meal, the two jailers found that their thoughts about the stable boy were surprisingly in accord. They had been talking about their prisoners and how they always insisted they were innocent of the crimes for which they had been convicted: ‘They say this even when they are caught red-handed!’ The men laughed at this.
After an introspective silence, the Second Jailer said, very quietly and uncertainly: ‘You know, I think he is innocent.’ A silence of ten seconds. Then: ‘I do, too.’ The men looked at each other in surprise, a surprise that turned into conspiratorial grins of relief. ‘If the Court Jailer could hear us say that …’ The First Jailer drew a finger across his throat.
After a long pause, the Second Jailer spoke, his expression far away: ‘I remember that first night so well. All routine to me, you know. You know how many beatings I’ve done – that’s right, hundreds, maybe more. And it was all just the usual routine, the stripping, strapping the arms up, giving the warning; you know, nothing unusual. Then he looked at me. He kept telling me he was innocent, in such a sincere way. And I found, when the time came, I didn’t want to do it. But I’m a professional. So I started, just as usual. I concentrated on all the usual places, then worked out to cover everywhere else and, yes, he cried, he screamed, just like all the others. But he did something else, too. In between the screams and the cries, he kept telling me he was innocent.’ The man placed his head in his hands, his eyes becoming moist with tears: ‘He is, I know it.’
‘I know it, too.’
The two men sat pondering. ‘What shall we do?’
‘What can we do? We are nothing in the community, just jailers. Nobody listens to us.’
‘He’ll go to trial. He’ll be found guilty. He’ll be sent back here and we won’t be able to protect him anymore, because by then he will just be a criminal serving his sentence.’ The two men looked at each other with helpless dismay.
After a long silence, the First Jailer spoke: ‘I have just had an idea. Listen …’ The men talked together very quietly for some time.
Lying in his narrow bed, still cold and uncomfortable despite his three blankets – a gift from his jailers – the stable boy shifted and twitched in a fitful sleep, dreaming of the day when this nightmare would be over. In his waking hours, he never pursued such a dream, for he recognised the hopelessness of his position, not only for now but for the rest of his life, however long that may continue: ‘One thing I have learned,’ he thought, ‘that poor weak people never receive justice from the Court. Even when they are known to be innocent, they will be forced to admit guilt and then punished severely for things they have not done.’ The boy knew this was exactly what would happen to him in due course. He sighed with hopelessness.
‘Excuse me, Sir, there is a man here asking to speak to you.’
‘Who is it, lad?’ The Head Stableman was not expecting any visitors at this time of the day; most of the tradesmen who came to sell him animal feeds and other materials came in the morning.
‘I do not know who it is, Sir. He says he is from the Town,’ the stable hand replied. Going outside, the Head Stableman found the man standing in the stable yard, dressed in neat working clothes and holding his headgear in his hands as a mark of respect.
‘You wish to speak to me? Have we done business before?’
‘No, Sir.’ The man was very respectful. ‘Many years have passed since we met. In fact we were boys together at the Town School. You were always very clever and were soon apprenticed to stable work.’
‘I must say I cannot recall you at present. What work did you take up?’
‘Sir, I went into legal work.’
‘Ah, so you are a man of the Law?’ The Head Stableman was impressed.
‘No, Sir, forgive me for giving you the wrong impression. I am the Senior Jailer at the Town Jail. I have been doing this work for many years.’
The Head Stableman now recognised the man before him. ‘Ah yes, I have seen you around the Town, you are sometimes seen with the Court Jailer – everyone knows him, don’t they? However I am happy to say I have had no reason to make professional contact with you over the years.’ The Head Stableman smiled briefly, then he said: ‘So w
hat can possibly bring the Senior Jailer to speak to me?’
‘Sir,’ the man said, lowering his voice, ‘this is a matter of great delicacy which involves a former employee of yours; I refer to your former stable boy who is now in the Town Jail awaiting the date of his trial at the Town Court.’ Lowering his voice even further, the man looked around nervously and continued: ‘It is possible we could speak in privacy somewhere? What I have to say is of great importance but, as you will hear, it places me in some danger.’
The Head Stableman looked directly at this man and thought: ‘Danger? I do not understand.’
Outwardly, he said: ‘I will hear what you have to say; let us go to my rooms. Come with me, please.’
As the two men proceeded to the rooms, the Head Stableman was thinking: ‘It is true that I am disquieted by the case of the stable boy. He was always a good and faithful worker and what he is said to have done was totally out of character. I remember he denied it vehemently at the time and this was backed up by the other stable hand who was the only other witness there. But the Master was adamant, Miss Kati reported what he did and the Master took the correct action at the time – if it is true, that is.’
This was not the first time the Head Stableman had thought about this. Also, there was the question of the injury to Miss Kati’s horse. Somehow that seemed to fit in with this matter also. Nevertheless, the Head Stableman’s loyalty was to his Master and, after the arrest and removal of the stable boy from his employ, the man had pushed the matter to the back of his mind; he had not forgotten, however.
‘Sit down, please, and tell me what this is all about.’
‘Sir, I work together with a colleague who is my assistant. We work well together. I do all the administration work and he usually attends to practical matters, like (the man hesitated) discipline, for instance. We are employees of the Town and are servants of the Court Jailer who, as you know, decides whether each case will be sent to the Town Court. When a criminal is arrested, he is brought to us for imprisonment before trial. We, that is, my colleague and I, assist the Court Jailer to prepare his case.’
The Head Stableman interrupted: ‘You help? How do jailers help to prepare the case? I do not understand.’
The jailer paused and looked down at the floor. ‘Well, the Court Jailer prepares the indictment for the Court and he, ah, requests that we obtain the prisoner’s confession which will be submitted with the case.’
The Head Stableman thought for a moment: ‘I understand that. But what happens if the prisoner refuses to sign the confession. What happens if the prisoner claims to be innocent?’
The jailer laughed: ‘Sir, every criminal claims to be innocent!’
‘So what happens? What do you do in these cases?’
‘Well, Sir, we are instructed to examine the prisoners rigorously, you know, put pressure on them until they admit their guilt. They always do – and the case can then go to the Court.’
The Head Stableman was silent, introspective. Then: ‘So tell me about my stable boy.’
‘Sir, you know what happened here at the Manor House. The Court Jailer then brought him to the prison. He told us that the Master of the Manor House had asked him to prepare the case for the Court and the Court Jailer stated that he was about to do so. Meanwhile, we were to, ah, – obtain – a confession from the boy … which we did.’ The last words spoken in a whisper.
‘Did the boy claim to be innocent?’
‘Yes, Sir, many times.’
‘So why did he sign the confession?’
There was a long pause before the man answered: ‘It was very difficult. We had to apply a great deal of pressure.’ The silence stretched to minutes; then the jailer said, almost inaudibly: ‘This is why I am here, Sir. My colleague and I, we both know that the boy is innocent.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Sir, we have done this work for many years and we are very experienced. We know that virtually all of the prisoners we persuade to confess are in fact guilty. A very few aren’t. Your stable boy is one. He is innocent. We know this with certainty.’
‘So why do you tell me this?’ The Head Stableman now spoke sharply.
‘Sir, the indictment is complete, the confession has been submitted and we have emphasised to the boy that he must not insist on his innocence. If he does so he will merely be sent back to us for more … discipline. There is no doubt that he will be convicted; it is the Master’s wish, it is the Court Jailer’s wish and, presumably, it is also the wish of the young lady who made this charge.’
‘So I ask again, why do you tell me these things?’
‘Sir, if you were at the Court and spoke up for him, for his character, it could make a difference to his sentence, because you are a very respected man in this community. This is the only way in which we can help him. If he comes back to prison, my colleague and I will not be able to protect him from the evil and violent prisoners we hold, because we will need to treat him just like all the others. He will be held in a common male cell and many bad things are likely to happen to such a young man in there. So bad that some do not survive what happens to them.’
The Head Stableman looked at the floor and thought for a while. Then he lifted his head: ‘I understand now why you came and why this is dangerous for you and your colleague. I will think about this deeply and I will keep it secret. You will let me know when the case will go to the Court and at that time I shall decide what to do. Meanwhile, should anyone ask, we will say that you were merely enquiring about future stable employment for one of your family, on the grounds of our earlier boyhood relationship.’
‘Sir, I am most grateful to you. I will leave you now and wish you well.’
The jailer bowed low and left with a feeling of great relief. As he sat that evening with the Second Jailer, he reported all that had happened at the stable yard: ‘I carried out what we decided. I went to see the Head Stableman and he was very fair to me, although he did ask some difficult questions. That’s the trouble with our job, we need to keep quite a lot of it secret, don’t we? Anyway, he listened to all that I had to say and said he would think about it. We have done all we can. The matter is in God’s hands.’
Piously, they both looked up to the ceiling.
Brother
Kati’s brother had grown up in fear of his sister. He did not understand why she was so unkind to him; after all, she was his “big sister,” just four years older than him. Aren’t big sisters supposed to love their little brothers? He had tried on many occasions to be very nice to her but her response was always brusque at best and sometimes downright aggressive.
When he was a very young child, her cruelty was physical, always taking any opportunity to prod him with sharp objects or stick pins into his tender flesh. At other times, she would deliver surreptitious blows to his body when no-one was looking. These attacks invariably made him cry loudly. Delighted, she would always shout: ‘Listen to the cry-baby! Always crying about nothing.’
As the little boy grew up and acquired speech, he tried on many occasions to explain to his nanny and his mother that his big sister was hurting him but, invariably, they would be very displeased.
‘You are a very bad boy to say that,’ they would say, ‘your sister loves you and would never do such things to you. You really must stop telling lies.’ Sometimes this would be emphasised with a powerful slap to a convenient part of exposed flesh – which, of course, would make the poor child cry once more!
In fact the constant bruising and series of small cuts and punctures all over his body were clear evidence of his sister’s attacks but, if noticed, they were never commented upon by his nanny, who believed that boys should be brought up to be strong, tough and aggressive.
‘Be a man!’ This is what the redoubtable lady would often roar. Such strident cries only succeeded in frightening the
rather timid little boy! ‘You’ll never get anywhere if you sit about crying all the time. You need to be toughened up.’
When he was a baby and a toddler, Kati filled the little boy’s life with pain and fear. As he became older, the physical attacks did not cease but Kati now added more subtle tortures, for instance singling out his most favourite possessions and destroying them. Toys were broken and his favourite books would somehow be ripped to pieces. Kati then refined this process by insisting that her brother had carried out this destruction himself:
‘I actually saw him doing it.’ She would report this artfully to her mother. Sometimes, if the occasion presented itself, she would report her brother’s bad behaviour to her father, who doted upon her. These strategies sometimes worked so well that her brother was severely reprimanded and occasionally beaten by his mother or even by his father if the event was regarded as a particularly bad misdemeanour.
Another very cruel strategy that Kati applied many times was to prevent the little boy from emptying his bladder when he needed to do so. She would block the way to the toilet bucket in the room and keep the little boy in extreme discomfort until he wet his clothes. Then Kati would run and tell his nanny, who would burst into the room, tear the wet clothes from the boy and wash him roughly before slapping him hard on his bare flesh.
‘You are a bad boy, you must not wet your clothes like this,’ she would say grimly, ‘and I hope this hurts.’ The little boy’s howls proved that it did!
Meanwhile, Kati stood back with her eyes shining with pleasure.
Years passed and Kati’s attacks continued, becoming more devious and cruel. When the boy was seven years old, Kati had engineered a particularly traumatic event for him. This concerned the destruction of a valuable model of a Chinese junk. For a long time afterwards, every time the boy thought about this, the memory would send him into pangs of fear and inadequacy.
The Knowledge Stone Page 17
