by E. M. Powell
Barling’s head rose from his tablet as the faces of all three justices went rigid too in their surprise at being told the law.
Edgar’s clear drunkenness made him blind as he carried on. ‘My lords, there has not been a murder in Claresham in living memory. It is a respectable, God-fearing place. The word of a nobleman is surely all that is needed in such an obvious case as this. I can go back and hang Lindley myself.’
De Glanville recovered first. ‘The King’s justice, sir, is what is needed. Not what you decide.’
Yet again Edgar spoke back. ‘Lindley is an outlaw, my lords. I can hang him. All I need is your permission, as his Grace has decreed.’ He grinned. ‘I would not want to pay the fine imposed on me had I done so without such permission. Now I can—’
‘Silence, sir!’ De Glanville’s anger was obvious now.
Stanton had to wonder if Edgar’s drunkenness was accompanied by madness.
‘What you have presented,’ said de Glanville, ‘is a secret homicide. You have no witnesses to the actual deed. Your only familial accuser is a daughter. Such crimes require proper consideration by the court of his Grace. Such as we have had in this past week, when we had three other men accused of murder. When we had them prepare for the ordeal. When they purged themselves by the ordeal.’ He leaned forward. ‘When we – we – judged that the guilty should be executed. Not you.’
Edgar opened his wide mouth.
‘I ordered silence.’
He closed it again.
‘Such consideration took a great deal of time, as is right and proper,’ said de Glanville. ‘Yet during said time, when you could have brought your case, you stayed on your estate, an accused man locked up in your gaol. And did nothing.’
Finally, Edgar looked embarrassed. A bit. ‘My apologies, my lords. But a severe flux kept me abed for many days. I will return and find a jury and—’
‘No, Sir Reginald,’ said de Glanville, ‘you will not. Tomorrow this court moves on to the next city. You are too late.’
‘Then I can hang Lindley?’ There was no mistaking the relish in his voice.
‘No, sir, you may not.’ De Glanville shook his head. ‘This case does not seem straightforward. You said yourself that this man Lindley arrived in your village as a beggar, not an outlaw. Not straightforward at all. It requires the hand of the King’s justice.’
His fellow justices nodded.
‘This man here, Aelred Barling, is the court’s most experienced clerk,’ said de Glanville. ‘He can oversee matters on our behalf. Barling, you will return to Claresham with Sir Reginald and administer that justice.’
Barling’s look of surprise instantly became a tight, if fixed, smile. ‘Of course, my lord de Glanville. It would be the highest of honours.’
Stanton held in a cheer at his own unexpected reprieve. It looked like he’d got away with his tardiness and his bruises. Barling would be gone for days. His aching head and ribs felt better already. He might even manage a visit to an alehouse tonight. A later one to a whore, one that he knew. Better, one he trusted not to have robbing friends in tow.
But de Glanville was speaking again. ‘Sir Reginald, you will provide Barling his accommodation and every courtesy of your hospitality.’
‘My lord.’ Edgar nodded but had the look of one who’d been asked to clean out a privy.
‘Barling,’ continued de Glanville, ‘you have admirable knowledge of the law. I am sure you will not need to consult with me and my fellow justices. But in case you do, take a messenger with you.’
A messenger? Oh no. Stanton fought the urge to make for the door.
Barling was looking straight at him.
Stanton glanced right, left, in the vain hope that another messenger had returned. But no. It was just him.
So Barling was off to Claresham to investigate the murder of one Geoffrey Smith under the order of the King’s court.
And Stanton, God rot it, was going too.
Chapter Seven
God has committed to the King the care of all his subjects alike.
Aelred Barling repeated this refrain to himself many, many times on the hot ride to the village of Claresham. More specifically, he revisited it every time Sir Reginald Edgar irritated him afresh. Which was several times every hour.
Had it not been for this man, with his untimely appearance before the justices and his inebriated confusion about the law, Barling would not now be sat astride a sweating horse, his muscles cramped from many uncomfortable hours in the saddle. He would be in the shade and calm of the court, with its ordered rhythm of document, case, document, case, as soothing as a mother’s heartbeat to an infant.
To add to Barling’s annoyance, the thick-set Edgar, riding close beside him on an equally coarse-bodied horse while the messenger, Stanton, brought up the rear of their trio, was one of those individuals for whom the retelling of a tale was an equal pleasure to the first time. The man went over and round and back over the hideous murder of Geoffrey Smith and much besides: how it was a singular event in the whole time he had had control of his lands. How extensive his lands were. Yet even so, how he normally kept the best of order, with not even a turnip thief escaping retribution. How, in his experience, swift justice was the best justice. The man’s rambling tongue was no doubt kept loose by the large leather bottle he drank from with great frequency.
‘Swift, sure, strong, Barling,’ Edgar wittered on. ‘That’s what you need with the law. Men like Lindley: dispatch them. Show no mercy, show them none. None whatsoever.’ And on.
Fortunately, the man shared that other feature of lovers of incessant speech: he did not seem at all concerned with checking if the listener had heard or cared. Debate was certainly not required.
‘Indeed.’ Barling swatted at the flies that danced before his sweat-coated face, landing on his mouth and nose with a foul tickle. To no avail. They were back again the second he stopped. Under his neatly pinned cloak, his body perspired worse than his face. But he would not loosen any of his clothing to allow the benefit of the soft breeze. He was the representative of the King’s rule of law. His appearance must reflect that at all times.
‘Do you not enjoy a draught of the good grape, Barling?’ Edgar held up his depleted leather drinking bottle.
‘No, I have very simple tastes.’ Barling’s innards rebelled, not only at the trail of spittle attached to the neck of the vessel, but at the idea of what warm wine would do to his overheated body. ‘I require water for my thirst. Nothing else.’
For once, his answer seemed to interest Edgar. ‘I’ll say that’s simple.’ Edgar took a sup from his own foul receptacle. ‘And unusual. Men of the court like the best things that life has to offer.’
Barling had no wish to respond further. ‘Speaking of water, I have very little left. If we have much farther to travel, I will need to collect some.’
‘No need.’ Edgar tipped his head back to take the last draughts, reminding Barling of a pig opening its mouth for an apple. ‘We’re almost at Claresham. You see that dip in the road up ahead? That’s the start of my estate.’
‘Did you hear that, Stanton?’ Barling looked back and his hands tightened on his reins in impatience. As if God were not testing him enough by sending him out into the disordered, violent world, He was sending the young Hugo Stanton along with Barling as a further trial.
‘Yes, sir.’ Not only marked with his blackened eye, the young Hugo Stanton had flung his cloak back over his shoulders and undone the top of his undershirt. His hat rested on his saddle pommel and the wind had blown his hair about in a tangled mess.
‘In the name of the Virgin,’ said Barling, ‘tidy yourself up. You are here as a servant of his Grace, not a peasant on his way to the fields.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Stanton set about making himself look respectable with a visage that lacked even a hint of apology.
Edgar gave a sharp whistle. ‘You.’
Barling looked to where a young boy collected kindling from under a stand o
f yews by the side of the road.
‘Fetch my nephew at once,’ said Edgar. ‘Tell him to meet me at my hall.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The boy darted off.
‘My nephew, William Osmond, is the rector of Claresham,’ said Edgar. ‘You can see the roof of his church from here. His house is next to it. My hall is over there, in those trees.’
Barling followed his point to see where he meant, then gave another glance back. Stanton now looked as well presented as possible, which was not a great deal.
The village came into view, unremarkable in every way.
A fair size, but nothing to compare to the teeming, tightly packed London streets that had always been his home, or even the busy city of York.
The wattle and daub houses and cottages built along the main thoroughfare were mostly modest, with one or two large ones and a handful wretched. A high-walled well stood about halfway along, and a family of ducks feasted on the thick grass which grew near to it. Floods seemed unlikely from the high-banked small river, which kept the mill wheel turning in a steady, splashing trundle. Much of the place still bore the scars of the terrible winter and stormy spring. A mighty fallen oak had crushed a small barn. Many damaged roofs still needed tending to even after so many months, while others had fresh thatch repairs. Fields stretching into the distance had sheep grazing or were busy with men making the best of the last of the good day. Smoke rising from roofs and the smell of cooking told of women preparing supper.
But nothing out of the ordinary was to be seen. Nothing to suggest this was a place where a stranger had cracked open the skull of the village smith in a vicious attack.
The clatter of the three sets of hooves on the road that led down into the village had caused raised heads in the fields, had brought curious faces to front doors.
‘My nephew will be surprised that you have come to join us for our meal,’ said Edgar to Barling. ‘I’m sure he’ll be very interested in why you are here too.’
‘Sir Reginald, our meal can wait,’ replied Barling. ‘Where is the gaol?’
‘The gaol? It’s down that way.’ He pointed to a narrow track that led from the main street. ‘But we have travelled for many hours, we—’
‘Your prisoner is the reason for my travelling, Edgar. Not your repast,’ said Barling. ‘Do you have the keys?’
‘Of course,’ said Edgar. ‘As I have told you, I keep the best of order here.’
Barling ignored the lord and nodded to Stanton instead. ‘Stanton: the gaol. We need to be prompt.’ Their arrival had already been noticed. It would not be long before the villagers gathered, he was certain of that.
‘Yes, sir.’ His messenger set off at a swift trot that Barling struggled to match. Edgar still protested but followed along. They dismounted outside the gaol and tethered their horses.
Barling’s stiff, sore muscles felt like they belonged to another.
‘You can see our murderer isn’t going anywhere, Barling,’ said Edgar.
‘It certainly looks secure, sir,’ said Stanton.
‘It does.’ Unlike many of the other village buildings, the low-roofed gaol appeared to be in the best of repair. Thick stone walls and roof, a stout wooden door, the metal lock large and new. Behind it, the man who had to answer for this crime. Barling stepped up to the door. ‘So that means Lindley is available to answer my questions.’
‘As he will be tomorrow,’ said Edgar, ‘when I have rested my backside from this journey.’
‘Unlock it, Edgar.’
‘Sir.’ Stanton’s brow creased in concern. ‘Perhaps we should wait. The prisoner could be very dangerous.’
‘The only danger is to him,’ said Barling. ‘We are the law, and there are three of us.’
‘Uncle! You have returned.’
‘Four.’ Barling corrected himself with a satisfied nod as a man hurried towards them, clad in priest’s robes. Edgar’s family blood flowed in the veins of the approaching young rector, no doubt about that. Barling saw much of an old boar in Edgar, and while the nephew was softer and pinker, the blunt nose and the small, angry eyes were the same.
‘I have, William,’ replied Edgar. ‘Though not with the news you hoped.’
‘What news would that be?’
As Edgar launched into a tangled explanation, Barling met the gaze of an uneasy-looking Stanton. ‘Pull yourself together, man,’ he muttered. ‘To show doubt is to show weakness.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stanton nodded, but his expression did not alter.
‘And that, William, is why we have the King’s men in our midst.’ Edgar finished with his hands flung up in disbelief.
The King’s men. Barling opened his mouth to correct the preposterous idea that a messenger could be included in his own authority.
William Osmond interrupted him. ‘You needn’t have troubled yourselves, good sirs. My uncle could have overseen the man’s hanging while I will pray for his soul.’ His eyes rose to heaven. ‘Though to no avail, I fear.’ He crossed himself with great extravagance.
‘It is not about need, sir priest,’ said Barling. ‘It is the law.’ He could see that many of the villagers were hurrying along the street to the gaol. To be expected, but most undesirable. ‘Edgar, no more delay. Please unlock the door.’
Edgar exchanged a frown with his nephew, then hammered on the robust planks with a meaty fist. ‘Lindley! Move away from the door!’ He unlocked it as he spoke, then flung it open.
Chapter Eight
A wave of foul, stale air met Barling. His stomach rebelled, but he refused to let his face change.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Stanton with a grimace.
Edgar coughed and spat. ‘Stinks like the animal he is.’
‘You speak the truth, Uncle.’ Osmond’s mouth turned down in revulsion.
‘Has the time come?’ The call came from a sun-reddened young ploughman heading the approaching crowd of men and women of the village. ‘Are we hanging the outlaw Lindley now?’
Raised fists and angry yells met his words.
Barling’s ire grew in response. Edgar’s people were as volatile as their lord. ‘Sir priest,’ he said, ‘please remain out here and convey to the people that what is taking place is not of their concern.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Osmond nodded with vigour in his clear desire to remain outside the hot reek of Lindley’s prison, pudgy cheeks wobbling. ‘I will appeal for order.’
‘I would request that you keep it also. Edgar, Stanton: with me.’ Barling squared his shoulders to carry out this latest grim duty and led the way inside, his shoes meeting filthy, damp straw as Osmond pulled the door to behind them.
A scuffling noise came from the shadows of the far corner. Barling was unable to make anything out as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
‘Oh, have mercy, have mercy,’ came a young male voice, thick with sobs. ‘I beg of you, have mercy.’
To Barling’s surprise, the voice did not have the tones of the uncouth.
‘Show yourself, Lindley,’ said Edgar. ‘If you move so much as a hair’s breadth without my say-so, I’ll throw you out the door and let the villagers deal with you. They’ll tear you apart with their hands.’
‘I won’t, my lord. I swear to you.’ The outlaw stood up into the shaft of evening light that came from the small, high window that was set with iron bars.
‘You are Nicholas Lindley?’ asked Barling, aware at the edge of his vision that Stanton’s hands had clenched into ready fists. Good. Barling had questioned many wrongdoers in his time but never in such unpredictable circumstances.
Edgar scowled. ‘Of course he is.’
‘Yes, sir. That is my name.’ The man shook in terror, tears flowing over the high cheekbones of his filth-caked face.
‘My name is Aelred Barling.’ Despite the threat this man might pose, this Lindley intrigued him. The outlaw’s dark chestnut hair was matted and his clothes consisted of the most dreadful rags. His hair and beard straggled with sweat and dirt yet were not
overlong, suggesting he had not always been so unkempt. And his boots also told an odd tale: horrible with mud and worse, but nevertheless appearing to be of the best leather. ‘I am here from the court of King Henry.’
‘Brought here by me.’ Edgar jabbed a finger at the outlaw. ‘So that I may hang you according to the law.’
A desperate whimper broke from Lindley. ‘Please, my lords, no. Mercy, I beg of you, mercy.’
Barling raised a hand. ‘Sir Reginald, pray silence.’ He reinforced his request with a glare. The lord had muddled things yet again. Barling would happily throw him out, but that would only leave the feckless Stanton to protect him should Lindley turn violent. Edgar at least had bulk. ‘You too, Lindley.’ They both obeyed.
From outside, a chorus of angry voices filtered through. The villagers had arrived. Osmond’s words sounded over them, his half-hearted demands for calm achieving little.
‘Now, Lindley,’ said Barling, ‘I want you to take no heed of what is being said out there and to answer my questions. First, did you kill Geoffrey Smith?’
‘No, sir. No. I swear to you, I did not.’
A snort of disgust came from Edgar.
Barling ignored him. ‘Yet the good people of Claresham believe you did.’
‘Sir, again, on my life, I swear to you that I did not. I have been living in the woods, that is all.’
‘A weak response,’ said Edgar.
‘All?’ asked Barling.
The outlaw’s gaze flicked to the glowering Edgar. And back. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Weak.’ Edgar again.
‘Sir Reginald, please.’ Barling held up a hand again. ‘Lindley, why are you living in the woods?’
‘I have no home, sir.’
‘You must have come from somewhere. Where is that?’
A sudden thud sounded against the wall.
Lindley started even as Barling kept his own reaction in check.
An angry yell. ‘Bring the swine out!’
‘If it was me, I’d let them take you,’ said Edgar.
Lindley said nothing, his panicked gaze on the entrance, breath fast, as if expecting the villagers to break through.
