by E. M. Powell
The glow of the setting sun fell on his face. A glorious evening, one for lying in the long grass with his lost, beautiful love. Not standing facing a circle of angry, shouting people, people who wanted to take a man’s life. And wanted to take it now.
Barling raised a hand. ‘Pray silence.’
An uneasy quiet fell.
Stanton kept his grip on Lindley. This lot looked on the verge of ripping the man from him, Barling or no Barling.
‘Sir Reginald has appealed this man, Nicholas Lindley,’ said Barling, ‘of the murder of Geoffrey Smith.’
Cries broke out again.
‘Then he’s guilty!’
‘Hang him, by God!’
Barling raised his hand once more. ‘But Sir Reginald has not provided me with a detailed and supported accusation. I have not established guilt.’
‘What?’ Edgar’s roar joined the shouts of those watching. He marched over to Stanton, his rage-filled face inches from the messenger’s. ‘This is your fault!’
Fine spittle dampened Stanton’s face. He didn’t dare wipe it. He had to keep hold of Lindley.
‘And yours!’ Edgar stomped back to Barling. ‘It was plain to see what happened in that forge! You said so yourself, Barling. Then this . . . this man of yours starts asking questions and you change your mind.’
Fury met his words in voices, in faces. And now that fury was aimed at Stanton too.
‘Me?’ Stanton’s gaze flew to Barling. ‘No, I’m not—’
‘Silence!’ Barling’s sharp order cut through the noise. ‘I will remind you that my word is King Henry’s word.’ The King’s name brought a tense silence. ‘The King’s.’ His gaze moved over those present. Slow, precise. ‘Would you consider shouting at his Grace?’
One or two dropped their gaze. Others stepped back in spite of themselves.
Barling nodded. ‘I did not think so. Hugo Stanton and I are here as his representatives. You would be well placed to remember that.’
Stanton kept his face still at Barling’s reference to him. He wasn’t Henry’s representative. He was a lowly message boy. But his gut told him now was not the time to say anything. At all.
Barling went on. ‘I will be investigating the truth of the matter. I will be making various enquiries and interrogations, asking many questions, and Stanton will be assisting me in that endeavour.’
‘Questions?’ Edgar’s mouth hung open.
Stanton kept his own clamped shut. Just. If being talked of as Henry’s representative was startling, his asking questions alongside Barling was even more so.
‘Is that all?’ The agonised scream came from Agnes. ‘What if there are no answers? How is that justice?’ Her man Theaker tried to shush her, but she paid him no mind. ‘How?’
‘I will assume that your grief for your late father makes you unaware of your behaviour.’ Barling’s clipped tone told of his annoyance. ‘But I warn you, my patience is growing thin. I strongly suggest you keep your counsel.’ He looked at Edgar. ‘That everyone does.’
This time Agnes allowed herself to be hushed, though her stare at Barling resembled that of a cat at a mouse hole.
Edgar’s tiny eyes narrowed, almost lost in his fleshy face. But he said nothing.
‘And question we will,’ said Barling.
We. Again. Stanton sucked in a deep breath.
Barling went on. ‘As many of you as we need to. And your answers will be truthful. Remember, God sees into the hearts and minds of all men and women, as well as their souls.’ Barling looked over at Lindley.
‘Oh God, help me.’
Stanton barely caught his whisper.
‘Truth and truth only,’ said Barling. ‘That is what we seek on behalf of his Grace.’
A loud snort came from Edgar. ‘And what if your questions don’t find the truth?’ He almost spat the final word. ‘What then?’
‘If,’ said Barling, ‘our every effort and enquiry fail to uncover the truth, then God has granted us a way to establish whether or not this outlaw is guilty.’
Stanton knew what was coming. He had witnessed it in York.
‘For which I have been granted full authority.’ Barling’s gaze went to Edgar. ‘Full.’ He folded his hands. ‘Nicholas Lindley will be made to purge himself by the ordeal.’
A low moan of despair came from Lindley as gasps and calls broke out and folk turned to each other in excited chatter.
‘The water!’
‘He’ll face the water!’
‘By God, what a thing to see!’
Stanton held tight to his trembling prisoner and stared straight ahead. He could not, would not look at him. He knew his own face would betray what the ordeal meant.
‘However.’ Barling’s single word brought instant quiet. ‘While the ordeal of water is the trial to which I would normally submit Lindley, in this case there is another which I believe to be far more fitting.’
Stanton’s confusion was reflected in the many faces before him.
‘Geoffrey Smith was brutally murdered in his own forge,’ said Barling. ‘The place where he earned his respectable livelihood and met his heinous end. Therefore Lindley will not, if it is necessary, ultimately face the ordeal of water.’ He paused.
Every face craned forward, rapt.
Barling pointed at Lindley, shaking even harder now in Stanton’s hold. ‘It will be the ordeal of hot iron.’
A great shout greeted his words, fell away again as people strained to hear.
‘This means, Nicholas Lindley,’ said Barling, ‘that an iron bar will be heated in a fire until it is red hot. Heated in Geoffrey Smith’s own forge. You will take that iron in your hand.’
Screams of excited horror broke from every gaping mouth and filled the air.
Barling held up three fingers. ‘Walk with the iron for three paces.’
More shouts as Stanton’s guts turned over.
‘Your flesh will cook,’ said Barling. ‘You will have a wound. Deep, deep in your palm.’
If he hadn’t had such a tight hold of Lindley, Stanton knew the man would fall to the ground in terror.
‘God be praised for the ordeal!’ cried Osmond. ‘The ordeal!’
Others took up the chant, their faces flushed in a baying chorus of vengeful joy, as Barling waited for silence. Got it.
‘That wound will be bandaged,’ he said. ‘Left for three days.’ Three fingers raised again. ‘It will then be uncovered. God will then give His judgement. If your flesh is uncorrupted, then God will have told us of your innocence. If corrupted, then He will have shown us your guilt.’ He dropped his hand. ‘And you, Nicholas Lindley, will hang.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I knew, Hugo Stanton, when I first saw you early this morn that you were not fit to serve his Grace.’ The King’s clerk hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t need to.
For his part, Stanton already knew he was in the deepest of trouble. He had been expecting it ever since he and Barling had finally arrived at Edgar’s spacious hall in the gathering dusk.
Though a fine building once, it was in a state of decay and chaos similar to that of the nobleman. Edgar had sent many servants scuttling across the soiled floor rushes.
‘Food! And quickly! My belly is like an empty sack.’ The lord was already guzzling from a dented goblet full of wine. ‘And we have guests. Prepare rooms for the King’s men.’ More scuttling.
Stanton had been following a servant to his own accommodation when Barling’s murmur came close to his ear. ‘With me. Now.’
So here he stood, tired, hungry, thirsty, still in his sweaty, dusty clothes from the day’s travel as the clerk’s pale eyes bored into him.
‘Not. Fit.’ Barling bit the words off.
‘No, sir. I’m not.’ Stanton doubted his answer would do any good. It didn’t.
‘I should have listened to my own counsel. To have had no messenger to hand would have been problematic. But not nearly so problematic as one that decides to interject in matte
rs that do not in any way concern him.’ Barling shook his head. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Why – I mean, what, sir? I mean, I’m not sure—’
‘May the Lord in His goodness grant me patience.’ Barling rolled his eyes. ‘Why you, a mere messenger, inserted yourself into my investigation. Why, at the forge, you suddenly took it upon yourself to enquire about the height of the late Geoffrey Smith.’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ But he did.
And the clerk could tell. ‘Yes, you do. Stanton, you are an appalling liar. Why did you ask about Smith?’
‘Sir, not long since I’ve witnessed innocent people punished for crimes they did not commit. For one of those people, I spoke up. Spoke up because I noticed something wasn’t quite right. Like today. My uncle was a farrier. The anvil height, you see. It made me think. And Lindley sounded like he was telling the truth to me.’ He knew he made little or no sense. Barling’s look had him getting his words all mixed up. ‘Before when I said something, it was almost too late. But because I said something an innocent man lived. And because of that others did as well.’
‘You are talking in utter riddles, man. Explain yourself. Properly.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, sir.’
‘Are you so boneheaded that you are unable to do so?’
‘No, sir. I mean that I can’t explain fully because it all happened before I became a messenger with the travelling court.’
‘Stanton, you simply do not understand your place. I am a senior clerk of the court of King Henry. You will answer any question I ask of you.’
Stanton took a deep breath. He had to stop Barling from trying to dig any deeper – and stop him now. ‘Then I shall answer you this, sir. I was a messenger elsewhere. I joined the travelling court with the approval of the lord justice de Glanville. That is all I am permitted to say. On my life.’
His answer worked.
‘I see.’ Barling sniffed in displeasure but no more. ‘And is your black eye also from defending the innocent? Or will you direct me to de Glanville to answer that also?’
‘No, sir. It was from unwise action.’
‘Action you perhaps should not have taken?’
The girl at the ordeal, leading him down the alley, him not having a clue. ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered.
‘I thought so. Your behaviour is like that of so many young men.’ Barling began to count out Stanton’s flaws on the fingers of his raised hand. ‘Rash, for one. Impetuous, two. Three: never stopping to consider the consequences of your actions.’ He dropped his hands. ‘Precisely as you acted in the forge, blabbing out your half-formed ideas. Not even half-formed! Lindley’s height is of no consequence. The branding iron gives plenty of extra reach.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘And because you did so, you set Edgar off, with him challenging my competence before that outrageous assembly. You, Hugo Stanton, came dangerously close to making me look a fool.’ He paused to draw breath.
Stanton didn’t say a word. He didn’t dare. Not with Barling like this.
‘Tell me, Stanton, if I look a fool, who does too?’
‘King Henry, sir.’ God rot his Grace.
‘Precisely. His name, his law. All of it.’ Barling’s colourless fists clenched. ‘A disaster. That is what would have happened had I not had the presence of mind to tell the people of Claresham that you are assisting me.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Barling held up a hand. ‘An apology is no substitute for considered action.’
‘I know, sir. Thank you, sir, for thinking so quickly. I won’t get in your way again, I swear to you.’
Barling stared at him. ‘But you are in the way, Stanton. You are in the way because you have put yourself there.’
Put myself where? ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite understand.’
‘Stanton, it is clear that you do not understand at all.’ Barling slowed his speech as if he spoke to a dullard. ‘Permit me to make it as clear as I can for you. I have announced publicly that I will be investigating the circumstances of Geoffrey Smith’s murder. That is the truth. I have also stated publicly that you will be assisting me in that endeavour. That was not true, at least not up to an hour ago. But now it is. I cannot make such a statement and then not act on it. In short, Stanton, I cannot lie. Nor can I be seen to be lying. Now do you understand?’
Stanton did. Damn it all to hell, he did. ‘That I am to be your assistant, sir?’
‘At least in name, to make sure my authority stays intact.’ He gave Stanton a pained look. ‘I have every confidence that your questions, or the answers that you receive, will be of little use.’
Useless. A failure. Again. Stanton clamped his jaw.
Barling continued. ‘I believe any such questioning to be futile because it is becoming abundantly clear that none of the villagers saw anything. Despite this, they have very much made up their minds about Lindley’s guilt.’ He sighed. ‘What is of most use now is the power of the ordeal. You may find that the outlaw’s lips are loosed by that power when you go to question him.’
‘When I go, sir?’
Barling frowned. ‘Yes, you, Stanton. Try not to look so appalled, man. I will of course be questioning Lindley too, and mine will be the one visit of any importance. But tomorrow I need to try and get sense out of Sir Reginald Edgar and write up a coherent account for the court of what he has done so far. I suspect it will take me a very long time.’ He gestured to the solar. ‘Not only is the man’s home in disorder, his speech is as well. While he is occupied with me, you can go and speak to Lindley privately. At least you will not have Edgar barging around like a bull waiting to be released into a herd of cows.’
Stanton cleared his throat. ‘I’m not very good at fighting, sir.’
‘Your eye tells the world that.’ The corner of Barling’s mouth twitched. ‘Rest assured, I am not asking you to fight him, merely question him. I am also aware that Lindley potentially poses great risk, despite his supposedly meek appearance.’ He shook his head. ‘I have seen the mildest of men transformed into monsters when their wrath grows within them. You will of course need one of Edgar’s men to come with you to unlock the gaol. Make sure he remains close by in case you need assistance.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stanton relaxed, but not by much. The idea of being cooped up alone with Lindley filled him with some alarm.
‘Once you are finished with Lindley, take yourself around the village and ask questions. Again, it matters little what those questions are. Make your presence obvious so people are reassured that the King’s justice is being administered.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stanton kept his face still, unwilling to let Barling see his anger at being viewed as of so little worth.
‘In the meantime,’ said Barling, ‘my greatest hope for a confession is with the threat of the ordeal. Lindley is in dread of his hand being roasted. If he is guilty, he is likely to say so very soon. He knows his hand will suppurate from his foul crime. He will have no wish to add to his own agony.’
‘Yet he may not confess even so.’ Stanton tried to put the idea of carrying a red-hot iron from his head. The pit, the water, entered it instead. ‘Like at York.’
Barling looked askance at him. ‘I did not ask for your opinion, Stanton.’
‘No. Sorry, sir.’
‘But your point, surprisingly, is well made. Then justice is with God himself. Once Lindley has carried the iron, we wait to see what the Almighty decides. If the man is innocent, he has nothing to fear.’
Stanton flinched inside. Were he Nicholas Lindley, he’d be in absolute terror. But he said nothing. He’d already said enough.
‘Now, leave me to wash before my meal.’ Barling clicked his tongue. ‘I would say that the linen has been used to wipe away the cobwebs. But the cobwebs are very much still in place.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stanton gave a quick bow and made for the door. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. He had not many hours left before he had to face Lindley and the villagers. Getting out from unde
r Barling’s eye for the first time on this longest of days would help. A few draughts of ale would as well.
‘And, Stanton?’
Oh, what now? ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Make sure you do the same. Or at least try. You cannot come to Edgar’s table in that filthy state.’
Stanton wasn’t sure if he heard him right. ‘Me at Edgar’s table, sir?’
‘Of course, man. I have presented you as my assistant. That must be maintained.’
So Stanton was still in the company of the ever-watchful, prickly clerk. The bad-tempered bully Edgar too. ‘Yes, sir.’ He left with a bow, closing the door behind him.
And let a string of silent curses loose in the empty passageway.
His step down from being a secret royal messenger to serving the travelling court had been a welcome one, the first step in a journey that would take him away from Henry’s service altogether. Now he was being dragged back in, carrying out public duties in the name of the King. He hauled his hands through his hair and cursed once more.
One thing was sure: he would never, ever sleep late again.
Chapter Thirteen
Finally, peace. Even better, solitude.
Barling sat down at the scratched table he’d requested to be placed in his solar at Edgar’s hall.
The spacious room should have had every comfort. Beeswax candles threw out a steady, pure light, for which he was grateful. But while a blessing for writing, the light had summoned several large brown moths through the tall window shutters, which stood open on this warm, airless night. The candlelight also served to show the state of the room and its sorry contents. Everything was in need of replacement or repair. The large bed’s lumpy feather mattress smelled of damp. The linen and rich red wool coverings upon it would have been fine once but were eaten through in a multitude of tiny holes. The yellow curtains, thick with embroidered green leaves, that hung from the carved frame above it to keep light out and warmth in were in the same condition. No rushes covered the floor.
Yet Barling cared little. His rooms as a student in Paris, so many years before, had been worse. At least there were no rats to greet him. At least not yet.
