by E. M. Powell
And the table before him contained every treasure he needed. His selection of pipe rolls, brought with him here for consulting on points of law. Fresh paper, a seal, red wax for any letters he would need to write. Precious vellum for his permanent record. His capped ink holder, the carved horn yellowed and worn smooth from many hundreds of hours of handling. His wooden writing tablet, its wax overlay smooth and pristine and awaiting his first notes. His collection of fine styluses and his sharpening knife. Last, a sealed document from the Archbishop at York.
Barling picked up a stylus, stifling a yawn as he checked its point in the flickering light. Not quite sharp enough. He reached for his knife to bring it to the required standard. The hour was well past midnight and the bed summoned his tired bones. Yet he knew it did not do to delay in compiling one’s notes. Especially not in this present situation, a situation brought about entirely by the intemperate, incompetent Sir Reginald Edgar.
Had Edgar been a man worthy of his title, the lord would have brought the case before de Glanville and the other justices in York in the correct manner. And it would have been heard there. In the confines of the court. The correct location. Barling’s pressure on his stylus snapped the point. He reached for another, frowning at his own tension.
He should not allow himself to be so annoyed by being sent here to Claresham. No matter how uncomfortable the journey, no matter how difficult it was to deal with Edgar, no matter what chaos engulfed this place, Barling’s mission on behalf of King Henry was clear in Barling’s heart: uniform rule of law and administration of this great land.
The law that allowed for the ordeal. His eyes went to the Archbishop’s letter again. The authority, should it be needed, for an ordained priest to carry out the necessary blessings for the ordeal.
That priest would be Edgar’s nephew, the unpleasant William Osmond. The rector had joined them at their meal earlier, his small eyes glittering at the prospect of the ordeal of hot iron. Yet Osmond seemed less concerned with the blessing of the iron, more with the detail.
‘Should it be red-hot, Barling? Or is it better that it is white-hot?’
Edgar, quite drunk once more and the horribly better-humoured for it, had roared with laughter at the question, chewed beef visible in his open maw as he pressed his knife blade flat on to his own palm.
Barling had tried to quell their unseemly eagerness. ‘It may not even be needed, sir priest. Part of the ordeal’s power lies in its anticipation. Remember, I also have much work to do before we move to the ordeal.’
‘Still.’ Edgar shoved his knife flat on his nephew’s hand. ‘Hisssssss, eh?’
The two men had laughed until they cried.
Opposite Barling, a silent Stanton had drunk a plentiful amount too, yet the wine did not draw any mirth from him. Sulking, no doubt, at being told a few truths about his disgraceful behaviour. As for his claims about being with the court with the approval of de Glanville, they were puzzling. De Glanville had indeed informed Barling of Stanton’s arrival, but no more. Never mind. Barling would seek out a full explanation, but that was for another time. What he had was sufficient for now. There were far more pressing matters to address.
He placed the newly sharpened point of his stylus on to his tablet and began the first of his notes. Geoffrey Smith: Murdered. On the fourth day of June in the Year of Our Lord 1176.
The wine did not draw anything at all, in fact: the young messenger had remained quiet throughout.
In the village of Claresham, in the county of Yorkshire.
Messenger? If only that were so. His pen moved on.
Blacksmith. Secret Homicide.
Now Stanton was his assistant, in the most unfortunate turn of events. Better fortune was that neither Edgar nor Osmond showed the slightest disbelief in his position. Barling did not think they had any cause to. He’d cast his mind back: he and Stanton outside the court, inside it, the journey here. Barling’s story that Stanton was his assistant would hold.
No thanks to Stanton. ‘Sir Reginald, how tall was Geoffrey Smith?’ The messenger’s question asked not once but twice in the foul atmosphere of the forge.
Barling had wondered if his ears had deceived him as he’d stared at Stanton. His fingers tightened on his stylus in annoyance. He was in the middle – the middle – of examining the forge. That was the task in hand at that moment. To approach it with order. With method.
Murder took place in Smith’s own forge. No witnesses.
The examination of the forge. That should have been the one task at that moment, nothing else. But Stanton, taken hold of by a personal memory, had opened his mouth and immediately disrupted that order.
Death was by fracture of the skull. Branding iron caused fracture. Face also fractured with branding iron.
As so many others had done before. Barling had witnessed passions take over in matters of law on far too many occasions over many years, when facts and distance were needed. The law was based on consistent, sound judgement. That was how it worked. Emotion made for neither. And emotions indeed ran high here.
Body was discovered by daughter, Agnes Smith.
The emotions of Agnes Smith in particular. Not only had she suffered the grievous loss of her father, she had made the terrible discovery of his body. Her strident boldness was another matter, however. He had not encountered very many young women who would be happy to hang a man.
Body is buried in the churchyard – I have not viewed it.
In the confusion of the assembly outside the forge, he had wondered – feared, even – that Agnes would tear Lindley from Stanton’s grasp and do it there and then. It would not have been difficult. Stanton was not a natural guard. Barling shook his head.
Accused is Nicholas Lindley. An outlaw who had claimed to be a beggar.
Barling could also understand the villagers’ naked thirst for vengeance. Feelings always drove the ignorant and uneducated. They could not be expected to consider the proper administration of justice. It fell to Barling to make sure they did. A heavy burden, but one he was happy to shoulder for his King.
Lindley swears he is innocent.
Stanton’s question about Smith’s height came back to him and he sighed. Naturally, Barling had had the same question. He’d had it the second he saw Lindley. But he’d kept his counsel, which Stanton should also have done. Once Edgar had presented the branding iron, Lindley’s height was no longer an important point. A smaller person of lesser strength could wreak havoc with such a weapon. Thoughts needed to be organised to be effective, not scattered hither and yon. One needed the whole picture.
Lindley is of middling height and build. He is not an especially strong-looking man.
Barling’s hand cramped and he stretched out his fingers, yawning again. He could do little more tonight. He had done what he always did: recorded line by line by line.
And then he also did as always. He read back through what he’d written.
After No witnesses, he inserted a question mark.
Then he underlined looking: He is not a strong-looking man, inserted But branding iron was weapon.
Finally, he wrote one more line:
Why would Nicholas Lindley want Geoffrey Smith dead?
Barling laid down his pen in satisfaction. Order. Method. That would bring justice. Barling knew it always did.
Line by line by line.
Chapter Fourteen
Hugo Stanton had thought that the previous morning in York was bad: sore and shamed from his beating, late to court, an angry Barling waiting for him.
But on this hot new day in Claresham, his first task was to be alone with a man accused of beating another to death in the most brutal way, and to ask him questions about that murder.
After that, questions to all the villagers.
And none of it mattered.
Barling had sent him out here for appearances only, nothing more.
He went at a measured pace, as if that could somehow mean he never reached Claresham’s gaol. But r
each it he had.
He turned to the burly servant Edgar had provided on Barling’s orders. ‘Open it up, please.’
The man didn’t answer, a look on his face of barely hidden contempt. Stanton had no doubt that Edgar’s claim about Stanton interfering had spread far and wide.
‘Stand away from the door, Lindley.’ The man pounded on it with his fist.
Stanton squared his shoulders. To have the rude servant in here with him would be better than no protection at all.
But when Stanton had been summoned by Barling earlier, before he left for the gaol, the clerk had been very definite. ‘Make sure you speak to Lindley alone, Stanton. If Edgar’s man is present, that means Edgar is as well. I do not want any further disorder of my enquiry. There was more than enough confusion yesterday. Do I make myself clear?’
Stanton had nodded, not daring to ask for the extra presence of the servant. Barling’s look as the clerk had sat behind a large table set out with documents and papers had told him it was useless. It also told him who Barling blamed for causing the muddle.
The servant swung the door wide. ‘There you go. Sir.’ He cast Stanton a sour glance.
Stanton pulled in a deep breath, both to steady his nerves and to get a last gulp of clean air before he faced the reek of the prison. His ribs hurt less this morning than they had yesterday. That was about the only thing better about this new day.
‘Lindley?’ His voice came out steadier than he felt as the door closed behind him. ‘It’s Hugo Stanton. The King’s man.’ He could bite his own tongue out for having to announce himself as such.
The early sun brought a bit of light to the wretched place.
Lindley stood at a safe distance away, hands clasped. ‘Good morrow to you, sir.’
‘And to you.’ It felt strange that this man called him ‘sir’ and not the other way round. Despite his rags and dirt, Lindley spoke well. Stanton had noted it yesterday. Noted also that the outlaw’s filthy boots were of far finer leather than his own as he’d marched him along the roadway. A riddle, this man. But he wasn’t the one with the skills to solve it. Barling couldn’t have made it any clearer last night.
Lindley watched him expectantly, his large dark eyes troubled, his lanky, red-brown hair hanging in filthy strands to his bowed shoulders. His left cheek showed the deep marks of Agnes Smith’s attack.
The man seemed harmless, hadn’t shown any great strength when Stanton had contained him yesterday. But Barling’s comment from last night pounded in his head: I have seen the mildest of men transformed into monsters when their wrath grows within them. Stanton knew what he meant: physical strength was not always needed for pure evil. He swallowed hard. Questions – he knew he had to ask questions. A waste of time, as Barling had made clear. Worse, a wrong query could set this man off. ‘How, em, how does this morning find you?’
The outlaw smiled sadly. ‘As every other morn these past ten days. I am locked in this place, God help me.’
‘I’m sure God will if you ask him.’ Stanton hoped that sounded more truthful to Lindley than it did to his own ears.
‘Oh, I think He has, sir,’ said Lindley. ‘When I heard Sir Reginald at the door yesterday, when you all came in, I thought that was it. That you had come for me.’ A tight sob came through his words. ‘To hang me.’
Stanton couldn’t reply. He’d never been one to inspire terror. Never wanted to. And now he had.
Lindley went on. ‘But God listened to me, listened to my prayers.’ He raised his clasped hands. ‘I am still alive. And it is thanks to your blessed intervention, good sir.’
Stanton shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t make any decisions, Lindley.’
‘But you saw that I am not an especially strong man, sir. You guessed that Smith was a tall, broad man, and that guess was correct. I saw him a couple of times.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘When he was still alive, of course.’
Stanton fought the urge to call for Edgar’s man. ‘Always alive?’
‘Yes, sir. Not, not like in that forge.’ Lindley brought a hand to his forehead. ‘That terrible place. I dreamed of it last night. That poor man. In life, I saw him around his cottage, his forge. Perfectly hale.’ He bit his lip. ‘When I was living in the woods as a beggar. I would try and see if there were any food scraps around the village.’
‘You mean steal?’
‘Is it theft to raid a bird’s nest in the Smiths’ thatch, sir?’ Lindley shrugged. ‘But I did hear him arguing once with his daughter.’ His hand slid to his cheek. ‘Agnes. I couldn’t quite hear what it was about, but they were both very angry.’
Stanton shook his head at the man’s clumsy attempt to push suspicion on to Agnes. The girl’s grief at her loss was in no doubt. ‘Many people argue, Lindley, especially in their own homes. It’s their own business and it should stay there. Folk don’t expect somebody to be hanging off the roof, listening.’
Lindley’s look darkened. ‘No.’
The sudden shift in his demeanour had Stanton quickly glance at the door. Three paces. That was all.
Yet when he looked back, Lindley’s face was earnest again. ‘I mean, no, sir. As I keep saying, I know nothing of the murder. Nothing whatsoever. I’ve been begging here. That’s all.’
Earnest enough for Stanton to ask, ‘Were you out looking for food the night Smith was killed? Is there anything you might have seen?’
‘No, sir. It was a miserable night. Pouring with rain on and off. I was in my little shelter in the woods, though I was soaked through. My shelter wasn’t really much of one. But it didn’t matter. I was going to move on from Claresham anyway. The very next day. There was nothing for me here, you see.’ His voice dropped. ‘And then the villagers came for me, howling that I’d killed Smith. Seized me from my shelter. Set upon me. Dragged me before Edgar.’ Dropped more. ‘I kept saying I was innocent. Innocent. But everyone said I was guilty. Everyone. Then Edgar too. And he told me I’d hang.’ A whisper. ‘I’ve been waiting ever since for my fate.’ Sobs broke from him.
Stanton shook his head. He couldn’t imagine what that must be like.
‘Then you came, sir.’ To Stanton’s mortification, Lindley fell to his knees. ‘You were the first person to speak up for me.’ He was sobbing harder now. ‘The only one. You saw the truth, sir.’ He raised clasped hands to Stanton. ‘The truth, God bless you.’
‘Stop, Lindley. Please.’ Stanton didn’t want this. The time when it had really counted, when it was right in front of him, he’d not seen the truth at all. ‘My opinion doesn’t count. Barling’s does.’ And the ordeal. But he wouldn’t remind this wretch of that now. The day of searing metal, of agony, and then a wait of three days. That day would come soon enough.
‘I’m sorry, sir. But you’ve given me hope.’ Lindley sobbed on, his head bowed. ‘Hope. God bless you.’
‘I’ll take my leave now, Lindley.’ He doubted he’d get any more from the outlaw, who seemed lost in his own upset now. As he went to walk out, he saw that the small pail which held drinking water for the prisoner was almost empty. He paused to add to it from his own leather bottle. The man might not have long to live. Being plagued by thirst in this heat seemed an extra cruelty.
Stanton hadn’t, as predicted by Barling, got any real answers from the man, who was in peril of being hanged; just more protesting from Lindley of his innocence.
Next, Stanton needed to try and find some from those who would do the hanging.
Chapter Fifteen
Stanton watched as the guard locked the prison door again, the sounds of Lindley’s anguish now mercifully silenced by the thick walls.
The guard caught his eye. ‘He’s secure again. Sir.’
‘My thanks,’ said Stanton.
He got no reply save for a stiff nod from the guard, who set immediately off back to Edgar’s service without a backward glance.
Stanton started after him along the track that led to the main street. He wouldn’t catch the man up, not with his long, fast s
trides. He didn’t want to, either. The guard’s look at him had been as pitying as that of the robber who’d stood over him as he lay in the mud in York: Fool. Stanton pushed the memory away. Barling had ordered him to question Lindley, which he’d done. Next were the villagers.
As he turned on to the main thoroughfare, an empty street stretched out before him, front doors shut. He’d been a while with Lindley. People would already have set off for the fields and elsewhere – another sunny day like this one couldn’t be wasted. Still, he had to try.
The first four cottages he went to sat shut and silent, despite him knocking more than once.
A dreadful tumbledown hovel came next. At least this door was ajar.
Stanton went up to it, rapped with his knuckles. ‘Hello?’
A quavering male voice answered. ‘God ye keep.’
‘I’ve come to ask you a few questions. May I come in?’
‘God ye keep.’
Stanton peered round the door.
An ancient man, toothless and feeble, lay on a bed of dirty straw. ‘God ye keep.’
‘Good morning to you,’ said Stanton. ‘I’m the King’s man. I have a few questions for you. About Geoffrey Smith.’
The man’s eyes roamed, vacant and unknowing. ‘God ye keep.’
No point in bothering this fellow. Stanton pulled his head back out. And started.
A high-pitched scream had rung out. A woman’s. Not with an echo, like in the open air. But muffled, as if a woman cried out indoors. He looked left, right. Could see nothing.
Another scream.
‘Hello?’ His breath caught on the call as his heart jumped.
Silence answered him.
No. It couldn’t be. Not again. He was too late, too late to help a woman in danger. ‘Hello!’
Yet another scream. That went on and on.
‘Where are you?’ He broke into a run, looking left, right at the closed buildings.
Louder. It came from this one.
Stanton ran to the door. Pounded with his fist as hard as his heart banged in his chest. ‘Open up, damn you! Open up!’
