by Maura Seger
Lady Margaret and the housecarl glanced at each other worriedly. The older woman's eyes were dark with concern as she took Roanna's hand. "Not at all costs, my dear. Your life is far too precious to us to allow it to be threatened."
More confidently than she felt Roanna insisted, "It will not come to that."
"Pray God you are right," Alaric muttered. "A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have thought anything could make the remaining Anglo-Saxon lords work together. No matter how much they all hate William, they were still far too independent and contentious. But between their respect for Colin and their horror at what's happening to you, they're coming close to the point of joint action." He shook his head wonderingly. "FitzStephen may succeed where no one else has before. Thanks to him, the lords may be truly united for the first time."
Roanna's face was strained as she listened to him. Nothing could be worse than for the Anglo-Saxon nobility to rise against William so belatedly. "It's too late for that The King's liegemen hold all but a few of the most strategic points in the country. The castles they've built to secure their positions are all but impenetrable. Any rebellion now would only be the excuse FitzStephen and his kind need to finish the job begun at Hastings. By the time they were through, there wouldn't be an Anglo-Saxon lord left alive."
"Then Colin had better get back here quickly and convince them of that," Alaric muttered. "Otherwise the hotheads will prevail."
Thinking of her husband and how he would react when he learned of her imprisonment, Roanna bent her head, it seemed as though she had brought him little good since their marriage. Softly, she asked, "Do you think he has heard yet?"
Alaric nodded. "If our own messengers haven't reached him yet, it's likely the King's men have gotten through. They left a day earlier with instructions to stop only to change horses." Gently, he added, "His lordship won't let anything stand in his way. As soon as humanly possible, he'll be here."
But the rest of that day brought no news of Colin's arrival, and on the following morning her trial began.
For the occasion, the great hall of the keep was cleared out, a dais constructed, and a large table hauled in to accommodate the dignitaries. Some effort was made to create an atmosphere of proper solemnity by draping the rough-hewn walls in war banners and stationing staightbacked men-at-arms at regular intervals. The guards were not there for mere ceremonial purposes. They were needed to keep down the press of curious observers, who clearly viewed the proceedings as a welcome distraction from the everyday monotony.
Awakened early in her cell, Roanna bathed before donning the dark blue tunic and bliaut Margaret had brought The somber color was well suited to her mood. With shaking hands she combed the silken mass of her hair until it fell in golden waves to her waist Securing the transparent veil in place with a plain circlet she glanced into a small polished metal mirror.
The young woman who stared back at her was unnaturally pale. Beneath thick fringes, wide amber eyes had the look of a wounded animal. Her mouth was set tightly and the firm ttne of her chin trembled slightly.
That wouldn't do at all. Determinedly, Roanna pinched color into her ashen cheeks and bit her lips until they were once again rosy. Lifting her head proudly, she made her gaze as hard and unrevealing as was possible. The result, while not all that she might have wished, was still a great improvement. Only someone who knew her extremely well would be able to suspect the clawing dread bottled up inside her slender body.
Certainly the officials who watched her enter the hearing chamber saw only a remarkably beautiful, apparently serene young woman. William sat at the center of the table, dressed in a black velvet tunic embroidered in silver. His garb was at once unrelentingly somber and regal.
Beside him, Odo's scarlet robes were in sharp contrast The bishop was seated at the King's right, a position required by his rank but which Roanna hoped also signified William's silent choice between the two contending factions of his followers.
To his left sat Montague FitzStephen. His lean, vulpine features might have been a mask for all they revealed of his thoughts. Only his narrow black eyes showed any life as they followed Roanna's every move. The dark green tunic he wore was cut to emphasize the power of his battle-hardened form. Almost as tall as Colin and certainly as fit, he had none of the other man's inherent grace He shifted impatiently as she neared, apparently anxious to get on with it
A clerk called the assembly to attention. "Oyez, oyez! Be it known the King's court is now in session. All those having business before it draw near."
A guard gently guided Roanna to her position in front of the table. Staring at the men who would judge her, she thought William met her gaze for just an instant. But he looked away so quickly that she couldn't be sure.
FitzStephen, who apparently would lead off, consulted some papers before him, more for effect than any need. His voice was sonorous as he declared, "We are come to consider the matter of the Lady Roanna Algerson, nee D'Arcy, lately charged with witchcraft in the parish of St. Elbert's, city of London, dominion of his most gracious majesty, William the King." His sharp, relentless eyes locked on the young woman before him. "What is your plea?"
Roanna had seriously considered her response. She might be able to delay the proceedings by refusing to enter any acknowledgment of guilt or innocence. But that would be a direct challenge to the legitimacy of the court and as such would constitute an attack on William, who, as presiding judge, was lending the full weight of his authority to the hearing. Reluctantly, she had decided it would be better to go along for the time being in the hope that Colin would soon return and the whole awful business could be settled peacefully.
Her voice was low but firm as she said, "I am not guilty."
FitzStephen frowned. He had hoped that after several days in prison she would be less spirited. But it seemed he would have to wait a bit longer to see her cower. Irately, he gestured to the clerk. "Call the first witness."
Roanna turned round, curious to see who accused her. Her eyes widened as she encountered the Norman matron from the market making her ponderous way to the front of the chamber.
When the woman was at last settled in place before the judges, FitzStephen began the questioning. Rapidly he drew out the witness's name and circumstances and established the fact that she had encountered the accused only once, several weeks before.
"And what happened at this meeting?" he inquired considerately.
The matron sniffled. She cast a fearful look toward Roanna. Her voice was shrill as she proclaimed, "That one . . . over mere ... the witch .. . she put the evil eye on me! Barely had I left her than I was struck down by a gripping pain in the stomach. Oh, it was agony! For days I could not move from my bed or take any nourishment. Ask anyone in my household, they will tell you how I suffered Just when I thought I could not endure another moment, a priest recognized my illness for what it was. He read the rites of exorcism over me and a devil leaped from my mouth! A hideous, twisted thing put there by her!" A trembling finger pointed at Roanna. "She's a witch, she is! As I live and breathe, she should be burned!"
FitzStephen, having listened attentively to every word, nodded sympathetically. "Yes, indeed, it must have been horrible for you, my good woman. Thanks be to the Lord for preserving you so that you could give testimony before this court Now you may go in peace."
"Uhhh . . . just one moment" Bishop Odo smiled benignly. "If you wouldn't mind, dear lady, a question or two."
The matron looked uncertain and glanced at FitzStephen for guidance. He shrugged vexedly. "If you really think that is necessary ..."
"I do," Odo said firmly. His smile was gone as he addressed the woman. "Where exactly did you meet the Lady Roanna?"
"Why in the market, not that I see what difference that makes."
Ignoring her objection, the bishop continued. "And how did you come to speak with her?"
"We were in the same shop. She got angry when I wanted the merchant to wait on me. And that's when she did it. Tha's when she c
ursed me with her evil eye!"
"Yes, yes, you've already mentioned that. But what happened first? Did you argue?"
"No. . . not exactly. She was impatient, arrogant . . . didn't know her place. Praise God I had the sense to get away from her as quickly as I did. If she'd had more time to work her devilish ways, I don't doubt I'd be dead by now!"
"But you aren't, are you?" Odo observed mildly. "In fact, you were far less ill than those who contracted the plague. Unless I am mistaken"—his gaze wandered over her ample form—"your health is, shall we say, robust"
A dark flush stained the woman's jowls, made all the worse as the bishop went on, "You were at the market to buy food, no doubt. How is your appetite, madam? Vigorous? I will hazard a guess that you tend to eat more than is good for you. Do you suffer often from stomach complaints?"
"No! That is ... I certainly don't eat more than is needed to hold body and soul together!"
"And in your case," Odo concluded, "that's quite an undertaking, isn't it?" Before the matron could sputter out another word, he raised a hand dismissively. "Thank you, madam. Your conscientiousness in appearing here today is appreciated. But you'll do well to take my advice and try a bit of peppermint water next time your stomach acts up. Like as not the devil you spit out was a fine, fragrant belch!"
Not even William attempted to hide his laughter as the outraged woman hastily withdrew. The guffaws of the highly amused crowd followed her into the bailey.
Roanna began to feel a great deal better about everything. FitzStephen was undoubtedly a dangerous enemy, but if all his witnesses were as easily demolished by the rapier-tongued bishop, she had nothing at all to worry about. She was almost smiling when a small, wizened man was summoned next
He shuffled reluctantly to the front of the chamber, his head bent and his gnarled hands clasped before him. Lank hair of indeterminate color fell into his red-rimmed eyes. Startled to recognize one of the many itinerant peddlers who frequented the area around the Algerson residence, Roanna waited anxiously to hear what he would say.
With a fine grasp of the distinctions between a matron of slight but still noble rank and a common drifter, FitzStephen addressed the man gruffly.
"Name?"
"Uh . . . Peter. . . Martin, may it please you . . . sir. . . ."
"Occupation?"
"T-this and that. . . whatever brings a penny. ..." Toothless gums grinned obsequiously. "I turn my hand here and there, your worship. Why you might be surprised what I can—"
"Just tell us how you came to notice the Lady Roanna," FitzStephen snapped.
The man recoiled at the reprimand. Haltingly, he explained, "Uh, well, you see, I collect old clothes, rags and the like. Been slim pickings lately what with one thing and the other." He cast a quick eye at William before continuing, "But I still can find something good every once in a while. Enough to make it worth lookin'. Anyway, I was on the road by the house where the lady lives and I noticed her there in the yard. Well, I mean, after all. . . what man wouldn't? ..."
He paused for an instant, silently calling on the gentlemen to understand how he had come to stand in a public thoroughfare gaping at a radiant vision whose golden hair, perfect features, and exquisite figure had played a major role in his dreams ever since.
An impatient glare from FitzStephen prompted him to continue. "So I was standin' there, see, and I couldn't help but notice what she was doin'. There were these cats, maybe half a dozen of 'em, all around her." His bulbous nose wrinkled. "Mangy beasts. Can't stand 'em myself. But there she was, smilin' and talkin' to 'em. And they were listenin', they were! All the time they were brushin' up against her, gulpin' down the food she'd brought, even lickin' her hands, you could tell they were takin' in every word she was sayin'. "
His voice rose meaningfully, "I looked away for just a second. Not more. When I looked back, the lady was gone. And in her place, standin' just where she'd been, was a soft, sleek she-cat with golden fur the same color as her hair!"
Pausing to relish the shocked gasp of the crowd, which by now was hanging on every word, the peddler went on importantly, "And that's when I knew what I was really lookin' at. I crossed myself, said a 'Hail Mary' and ran down that road prayin' to the good Lord to protect me and all the faithful from witches what go about in the bodies of cats and turn a poor man's rest to a torment of unholy thoughts!"
Stunned silence greeted this dramatic conclusion. Even Odo seemed briefly at a loss for words as he struggled to come to terms with the peddler's charges. Long moments passed before the bishop gathered himself sufficiently to murmur, "Remarkable . . . absolutely remarkable. . . . We are asked to believe the testimony of an addle-brained idiot who I sincerely doubt can remember to pull down his hose before pissing!"
Turning on FitzStephen, the bishop demanded scathingly, "Is this the best you can do, sir? Overstuffed matrons and lecherous rag pickers? God's breath, do you imagine this court has no truly serious matters to attend to?"
"This is serious!" the warlord protested fervently.
"We are dealing here with a matter of witchcraft! The woman is in league with the Devil!"
"Then prove it!" Odo roared.
Drawing himself up stiffly, FitzStephen glared at the bishop. He knew there was no help to be had from William. The King was leaning back comfortably in his chair, his hands held in front of him with the fingers pressed thoughtfully together, and his expression inscrutable. Only one seated very close to him could see the tiny smile curving his sensual mouth.
With gathering dismay, FitzStephen realized that if he could not turn the trend of events around quickly, he would lose all chance to influence his master. Indeed, he was in real danger of being made a figure of mockery and derision, something his overweening pride would never bear. As his hatred for Roanna and everything she represented reached new heights, he summoned the final witness.
The monk who came forward was a somber-faced, iron-backed old man whose spare frame and austere robes gave him an air of unshakable sanctity. Alone of those who had so far spoken, he looked unimpressed by the high lords ranked on the other side of the table. His thoughts were clearly on a higher plane as he spoke quietly but determinedly.
"I am Father John Manus, abbot of St. Bartholemew's in the west minster of London."
A low murmur ran through the crowd. The monk was one of the most respected men in the city. As leader of a Benedictine abbey, he had tirelessly led the effort to help the plague victims. When most doctors and priests were trying to bar their doors against the infection, he and his fellow monks risked death countless times over as they brouqht food and medicine to the sick, gave last rites to the dying, and collected the remains of the dead.
Not even Roanna, who desperately wanted to believe there could be no convincing testimony against her, could remain unaffected by his presence.
Ignoring FitzStephen, who tried to launch into his usual questions, Father Manus looked directly at the King. "My lord, I wish there to be no misunderstanding about why I am here today. I do not accuse this woman. Neither her guilt nor innocence have been revealed to me. I come only to provide information to this court which is relevant to your proceedings."
William had straightened up in his chair. His face was grave as he motioned the abbot to continue.
"As you may know, sire, it was monks from St. Bartholemew's who during the plague gathered the corpses of the victims so that the natural course of decomposition would not spread further sickness. I will not send others to do such sorrowful work without sharing the burden myself. Therefore, it became my custom to drive the cart which collected bodies each day from the area in which the Algerson residence is located."
"And were there many?" the King asked softly.
"Indeed, several hundred from that neighborhood alone. There were days when we had to make two or three trips to bring them all in. Some households were wiped out entirely."
"And how does this pertain to the charge of witchcraft?"
Father Manus
hesitated. He glanced at Roanna somberly. "There was only one house in all the city from which we never gathered a single corpse. While all about were dying like flies, we took no bodies from this lady's home."
"And yet," William said sharply, his voice rising over the anxious mutterings of the crowd, "the Lady Roanna has reported that two of her retainers, two servants, and one female guest perished of the plague."
"So she may say," Father Manus agreed calmly, "but what then happened to their bodies? The facilities for private burial were quickly overwhelmed, and no one other than monks of St Bartholemew's would take the corpses. If there was death in her household, why is there no evidence of it?"
It was not a question William could answer. Mutely he turned to Roanna, as did everyone else in the court.
She had to swallow hard to get past the obstruction in her throat What a short time before had begun to look like no more than a bad joke once more assumed the shape of deadly menace.
So softly that she had to stop and begin again, Roanna said, "The abbot is wrong when he says there were no private burials. They were difficult to arrange, but not impossible. In the mass internments that took place to prevent contamination, much had to be overlooked. I wanted to make sure those who had been in my care received the full Christian rites."
"Where then were they buried?" William prompted quietly.
"At a small church on the outskirts of London, called St Ethelbert's."
"If that is true," Father Manus pointed out, "there should be records."
Roanna nodded, only to have her hope quashed by FitzStephen's triumphant announcement "An effort has already been made to find any documents related to private burials arranged by the Lady Roanna anywhere in London or its environs." He paused significantly before adding, "There are none."
