by Anne Brooke
Frankel coughed and his wife turned to him.
“It is in the bread-store,” he said. “The scribe wanted to be alone when he met us like this.”
A brief silence and Simon could see the range of emotions flowing over the cook’s face: surprise, puzzlement, relief and a dark silent joy.
She only nodded her understanding before continuing. “Good. It will make our task easier. We are gathered here to meet a man who is our enemy and to give judgement on him. I have no fine speeches to give you. They do not sit well in a labourer’s kitchen. But we must judge for ourselves as our own Lord cannot do it. He is not what he once was. As you see, the murderer who caused this war and the death of so many we love has returned. Our land waits for justice to be done so we can live again. That is what our stories tell us and they have in the past proved true. So, will you help to bring about an ending and a beginning to this new day-cycle?”
The people’s response was in no doubt, and Simon knew his judgement was near. The only problem for them was how to perform his trial. He did not have long to wait to discover Jemelda’s mind.
The cook turned to face him and he could not look away. Even without reading her thoughts, he could see the almost overpowering range of emotions skittering across her expression. This was a day Jemelda had longed for, a day of retribution, for calling to account his sins and the suffering he had put so many through. But it was also a day when the natural order of their world, which said the Lammas Lord’s word was law, could not be followed. It was a day when the people would have to speak their desire directly and to the full. It was more than anyone should be asked to stand under, but there was no choice. If Simon could have reached across and given her the strength she needed for the task, he would have done so. But he had no right to anyone’s mind, let alone hers. Finally, her thoughts settled and he found he could breathe again. If he was going to die this day-cycle then let it be done well and with some kind of dignity.
When Jemelda spoke again, she continued to hold his gaze, but her voice was strong enough to carry to all who waited there.
“We have no red or white stones to choose death or life,” she said. “And I am glad of it. For today something new will happen and the old ways are not for us. In my most secret moments, I have sometimes thought the choosing of stones is too simple a method. You do not bake bread without deciding how many herbs to flavour it with, or the taste is lost. There is more to a decision than a yes or a no. So, instead of stones, each of us here will tell our stories, and the cruel ways in which the man under judgement has dealt with us. Then when our tale is done, let each of us stand to the right if you wish Simon the Scribe to live, and to the left if you wish him to die. If you do not know, and the spices of your history are not clear to you then remain in the middle where you have accused him. When we have each spoken and taken up our places, then we will carry out the verdict. Do you agree?”
A pause ensued. Not that Simon could blame them; Jemelda was asking them to overturn the tradition of eon-cycles. Finally, the colours wavering above the people’s heads shifted to a steady blue, and when they spoke the answer was yes.
The trial, the second one he had faced here, had begun. How he was glad for it.
Jemelda
She had no real idea what she was doing but still that powerful force within her drew her onwards. She felt as if all the ingredients of the perfect loaf were gathered, and soon they would blend together in full. How she wanted this. She needed someone to pay for the season-cycles of fear and the recent destruction of everything she knew and loved. It was the only way for the land and the people to be free again. Their ancient stories, those told near the well at evening when the work was done, spoke of a sacrifice that would heal all wrongs. The sacrifice would be the scribe; the villagers she knew would never choose to let him go. The man had come back to them for judgement; so he would find it. The silence in her heart she had lived with for so long told her this.
As the snow dampened her hair, she brushed its softness back from her face and covered herself with the hood of her cloak. It was hardly enough to protect her but the gesture felt like something far older, a protection from wrongs they could not see.
As the people gathered round her, Jemelda remembered her story in quiet words, as she gazed at the murderer’s face.
*****
“We were once a happy people,” she said. “We lived under the rule of the Tregannons for many generation-cycles. We were farmers and bakers, herb-dealers and dyers. It was a simple life where our days were ruled by the sun and the rain, and our nights were full of the stories we told and the friends and family we possessed. Yes, it was harsh and the father of our present Lord could be strict in his ruling and keen in his judgements, but we understood our role in our world, and he understood his. What could be more fitting?
“Then the old Lord died, and his son, Ralph, became our present Lord. We thought our lives would become easier, but then after only a few year-cycles, this man,” Jemelda waved one hand at the scribe as she spoke, “this man came to our village and all we thought we knew was changed for ever.”
The murderer’s face grew even paler and, above them, the sky darkened and the falling snow turned the distant trees more black. It was as if night had come upon them in the midst of the day-cycle.
“We had always known,” the cook continued, “how different the young Lord Tregannon was from his father. His ambitions for us as a people were higher, and the trade links he formed with our neighbours were greater in number, but then the scribe arrived here and poisoned the mind of our Lord against us.”
“No,” the murderer spoke, interrupting Jemelda’s flow. “It was never like that. The mind-executioner was already with you and the darkness of his plans already present. Ralph sensed them, and I only confirmed his suspicions.”
“You lie.” Thomas the Blacksmith took two steps forward, looking as if he might hit the scribe again. “And do not interrupt the castle cook when she is speaking. It is not your place to speak.”
“Peace,” Frankel stepped forward and laid his hand on Thomas’ arm. His voice was low and she almost had to stop breathing to hear. “Let the man under judgement be. It is our law.”
Thomas made a sound halfway between a groan and a curse, though she could not make out the words. For another moment she thought he would shake off her husband’s restraining touch, leap at the murderer and tear out his eyes with his own hands and hatred, it was so strong in the air around them. But then he shook himself to sanity and moved away.
Jemelda breathed again. She would not stop to tend any of the scribe’s wounds; if she had her way, he would be beyond wounds before the moon had risen. She did not wish to waste her time.
“When this man came and poisoned our Lord’s mind against us,” she continued, “we grew to fear the pace of the soldiers’ feet at our gate, we trembled at shadows and we did not dare think the thoughts we had. For this murderer had the ability to steal our secret minds, and to know the depths of ourselves even we did not fully understand. What was doubt became proof of sin in his eyes, what was only a wish for a future we might long for became cause for trial and a means for murder. Soon what was whispered at our tables became something revealed for all to see at this place of execution where we stand today.
“Here in this place of terror and grief, we lost friends and family to the beat of the soldiers’ drum and the whim of a stranger’s mind. Blood was spilled which should never have been spilled, and I know there must be a reckoning for the one who caused it. This man, this murderer. Today, I am the first to speak judgement and my judgement is this. Let him die.”
With that, Jemelda gathered herself up to her full height and spat directly at the scribe’s face. As before, her aim was true and her saliva struck his left cheek before tracing a slow journey downwards. She felt herself smile but he did not move.
After that, the stories and verdicts of her fellow-villagers came quickly one upon another, like a spring floo
d. Most of these stories Jemelda knew or guessed at, but some came as a surprise. How had the Lammas Lord allowed such acts to happen? The answer was the mind-executioner, now himself dead, and the man standing before her. It struck her for the first time that the power one man had over another was beyond any measurement she could guess at.
Whilst her thoughts drifted through such vast matters, too vast for a simple cook such as herself, she listened to the stories of her friends. The baker had seen his brother killed, merely for helping one of the group of young men who had fled to the woods when the murders had started. Where had they gone? She had not found them in her search. The night-women, who spoke in her hearing for the first time, their voices low and husky from lack of use, told them about the fear of the soldiers who came to them, how the Lord’s commands had baffled his men but they had no choice but to carry them out. Even so there had been hidden conversations and the terror of discovery which in the end never came. The night-women also told how more than once men they were with had been snatched away to their judgements and death, unable even to put on their boots before they were taken. It surprised her that when their tales were done, the decision they made was not for death: and so they became the first of the villagers who had cast their judgement this way. She did not approve, but she let it go. She had asked the people she knew for their choice and she would not let it count for nothing.
It surprised her less when her husband also, after he had spoken his quiet and measured story, turned to stand with the night-women, revealing his judgement to be as theirs. At his decision she could feel the people behind her grow quiet but she did not acknowledge them. Instead she nodded at Frankel and, after a moment, he nodded back.
Finally, the story-telling came down to Thomas. Jemelda knew he had taken the loss of the woman he loved deeply into his blood and she had seen only this morning how he would never be free of it. When it was his turn, the blacksmith strode the few paces needed to stand directly in front of the scribe, blocking her view of him.
“You and I and all of us know what story I would talk of,” he said, his voice ringing out like the field bell warning of wolves. “It is written in my heart, not on the parchment you used to write with, Scribe. I have no need to shape it to the day’s liking again. Ever since the woman I loved died, I have longed to see you punished for that crime. I have nothing more to say to you, but I stand in the company of those who wish you dead. This is all you need to know.”
With that, Thomas came to join Jemelda and the villagers huddling around her. There were only three people on the side of those who would not judge him; the rest were with her. It was time for her to give the death penalty to the condemned man. She opened her mouth to speak, but the murderer was there before her.
“You are right in what you say and in the decision you have taken,” he said, his gaze flowing over each of them as if weighing them in the scales. “I came here to die, if that was your will. Come then, do it quickly and may the gods and stars grant your land and your village a resurrection from the evils I have brought upon them.”
When he finished speaking, the condemned man stretched out his hands and looked at her. Jemelda understood this was her cue to speak, although it was strange he could exercise the power to grant it, when he should have no such power. She straightened her shoulders and stared back at him.
“In this place of execution, the destiny of the one on trial before us has been decided. More are for your death, Simon the Murderer, than are against it. So let it be done, but let it be done slowly so you may know to the full what your crimes have been.”
Simon
Everything changed with Jemelda’s words. He could tell by the way the colours of the people’s minds coalesced from their differing shades of purple, silver, green into the deepest black, pierced here and there with flashes of crimson. Death was upon him and upon him swiftly.
And with it, chaos. Simon didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but up until now the cook had conducted proceedings with something close to dignity, in spite of setbacks. The moment Jemelda had spoken the people’s judgement out loud, although it had been obvious which way his fate would journey, the villagers launched themselves upon him. They grabbed him and began to drag him to the Tree of Execution, all the time shouting and cursing him in the names of the stars. Above their clamour, the Lost One could hear Jemelda’s triumphant voice. He could not hear any words from Frankel or the night-women; he could only sense their terrible shocked silence.
As the people continued to pull him forward, Simon fell heavily and tore his beloved cloak. The next moment, it was ripped away from him and he cried out. The first time he’d done so. With a roar, the people brought him to the tree. This time, there would be no rescue by the Gathandrians; this time the choice was his own, not another’s. Finally it was Thomas who snapped out the order to one of the night-women, who stumbled backwards but ran to obey.
“Fetch rope,” he said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.
The people continued to hold Simon down, though there was no need; he had no intention of running or begging for mercy, not like the last time he’d been here. He had every intention of seeing it through to the end. The need churned in his blood and its fulfilment would not be denied. As this thought flowed through him, he heard the distant cry of the snow-raven far above. He hoped he would see the great bird before he died. The raven had been with him through so much. The mind-cane too, but that was very different.
Simon had willed himself not to glance up toward the high castle windows, or what was left of them. But now he could not help it. He thought he saw Ralph’s figure for an instant standing in what had once been his bedroom, but he could not be sure. The impression was gone almost before he’d credited it, and left no colour on his mind. Perhaps neither of them had any colour left either to give or receive.
A commotion at the edge of the small and now silent crowd, and the night-woman slipped through. She carried a stool from the kitchen and a length of rope. She handed both of them to Thomas and the crowd pulled Simon to his feet in front of the tree. The blacksmith stood on the stool and wrapped the rope around the branches in a manner the Lost One couldn’t understand. This was not to be a simple hanging then. He wanted to read Thomas’ mind to uncover his intentions but it was not his place, not any more. By the gods and stars, it had never been his place with these people, but because of Ralph he had done it, over and over again.
It didn’t take long for the blacksmith to achieve his purpose; above the height of a man, four loops of rope hung from the tree, the middle one larger than the others. The two upper loops were for each hand, one for his head and one for his feet. The intricacy of knots and the beauty of their fashioning made Simon’s skin grow even colder.
“Stand on the stool,” the blacksmith ordered. Simon obeyed. “Put your head into the middle noose, your hands in these outer ones and your feet in the lower, and then our justice will be complete.”
The Lost One nodded. “Yes, I will do as you say. But first you must know this: what you do on this winter afternoon, you do only because the gods and stars wish it to be so. Their will is also mine. When the deed is done, there will be no accounting amongst you for it; instead, you will be free. Trust me.”
Thomas’ face convulsed, and the white-hot colour of his anger pounded Simon’s thoughts, a piercing alternative to the chill white snow.
“You have no right to speak with us,” the blacksmith shouted. “And none to forgive. Do as I say and then you will die, but slowly enough for you to know it.”
With that, Thomas reached down and dragged the Lost One up with him, his fingers scrabbling for the ropes and pushing Simon’s head and hands and feet into the waiting nooses. Then the blacksmith leapt down and pushed the stool away. At once the ropes tightened round Simon’s flesh and he was left hanging from the Tree of Execution, gasping for breath and scrabbling vainly for a hold.
“There,” Thomas said. “The task is begun and in due time
you will die. Let it be so.”
Ralph
Today, the scribe will die. His people have proclaimed it. Ralph does not need to hear the words; he can sense the threat in the air, feel the purpose of his villagers’ assumed leader, Jemelda, forcing itself into his mind. The irony it should be her who wields the power instead of himself has not escaped him. The cook and her family, her mother, and her mother before her, have been the Tregannons’ servants almost as long as they have ruled this country, and that she of all of them who has stayed with him in spite of everything should do this thing makes his breath stutter and his skin prickle. But she does not know the full horror of what she is doing, does she? He has no-one to blame for this impasse except himself.
It’s not a good day. The long line of a series of not good days, since the war, since the day Simon escaped him.
Ralph opens his eyes onto the wintry depths of what used to be his bedroom. With an energy he has not possessed for many days, he springs to his feet and kicks over the remains of the wash-jug which has somehow found its way in here with him. It focuses him. How he needs that.
He strides from the bedroom and runs through the darkened corridors of his home, hearing occasionally the scuttle of a river-rat as it flees from his approach. The smell of dust and fear lie in the air. How has he allowed it to come to this?
By the time he’s in the hallway, the scene of yesterday’s futile encounter with Simon, the shouting has begun. It comes from his courtyard. The sound is familiar: the anger of people primed to kill. He has stirred that in their blood too often for him not to recognise it.
