by J A Cummings
Queen Severina seemed impressed, as well, but her husband was much less so. King Gurgurest’s mouth turned down at the corners as he told his guards, “Open the doors.”
They obeyed, and a crowd of excited people flowed into the room, eager to see the new High King and to hear his pronouncements. Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest, and he said quickly to Merlin, “Sit beside me.”
The druid smiled and leaned toward his ear. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “You don’t want to look controlled by me.”
“No, but I can’t sit here alone,” he said. He looked up into Merlin’s eyes, and he knew he looked as frightened as he felt. “Help me.”
If they’d been in private, the druid would have put a calming hand upon his shoulder. Instead, Merlin smiled softly and said, “Breathe, Arthur. You will do well. Just follow your heart, and you will know what to do.”
He tried to believe that Merlin was right. The druid moved to sit beside Sir Ector, leaving him alone with Gurgurest on the dais. He gripped the arms of the throne on which he was seated, hoping that if he squeezed hard enough, his hands would stop shaking. Every face was turned toward him as the gallery filed in, and he saw expressions ranging from surprise to dismay and even a few expressions of disapproval. A pair of ladies in flamboyantly embroidered gowns sat together and whispered to each other behind their hands. He felt uncomfortable, well aware that he sat before a hundred judges.
Merlin repeated in a whisper, “Breathe. Believe in yourself as I believe in you.”
He looked at the druid, and their eyes met. Merlin smiled to him, and the warmth in that look was reassuring.
King Gurgurest spoke to the assemblage with an increasingly sarcastic tone in his voice. “I have deferred today’s proceedings to our new High King Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon and lord of us all.” He turned to him, and the look on his face was full of insolent challenge. Arthur burned. “I trust that he will be able to deliver the king’s justice with a sure hand.”
He raised his chin. “That I shall. Send in the first petition.”
A pair of soldiers came in, dragging a pathetic man between them. He was bruised and battered, and his hair and clothes were dirty and unkempt. He had the reek of filth about him that Arthur could smell even from the dais. The soldiers pushed him onto his knees before the throne, and he stayed on the floor, his wrists manacled before him.
The young High King asked, “What is the story of this man?”
“He is accused,” King Gurgurest said, an unseemly amusement coloring his voice, “of the murder of his wife.”
Arthur frowned and turned to the man who was kneeling at his feet. “What is your name?”
“Marcus, my lord,” he answered.
“Marcus, how did you come to be in this court today?”
He rubbed his nose with one thumb and sniffed, tears springing to his eyes. “It’s as they say, my lord. They say I killed my wife. But I didn’t do it.”
The court erupted with derisive laughter. Arthur held up his hand, and the people fell silent, albeit sullenly. “Someone tell me the details of the crime.”
A herald stepped forward. “On the night of Candlemas, the man Marcus was found crying for help in the doorway of his hovel. The night watchman responded to his cry and found said man’s wife dead upon the floor, stabbed through the heart with a cheese knife. Marcus was well drunk, and the night watchman took him as the killer. This man’s house and belongings were surrendered to the city.”
“I found her like that!” the accused protested. “I would never have killed her!”
“Drunken on a feast day,” Gurgurest scolded, “and shedding blood on the holy day besides… that is the action of a heretic.”
Marcus began to tremble. The punishment for heresy, as for treason, was the stake. “I swear, my lord, I never killed my wife.”
Arthur looked the man in the eyes. “Tell me what happened, from your recollection.”
The man snuffled, then said, “I was out drinking - no, I don’t deny it, burn me if you will, but I wasn’t the only man in my cups that night. I came home to my house and heard a ruckus going on inside. I heard my wife’s voice, and a man’s, and I heard her crying. I ran to get a pitchfork, and when I came back, the door was open and my poor Portia was lying dead on the floor.” He began to sob. “The man who was there with her killed her.”
Gurgurest sat back. “He obviously found his wife in the throes of infidelity and he murdered her and chased her lover away. It happens every day.”
Arthur ignored him. “Did you recognize the man’s voice?”
“No, sir.”
“Was there anything distinctive about it?”
“Well...he spoke a different language, sir. I believe he was speaking in Latin.”
The young king tilted his head slightly, careful not to let his crown slip from his head, and studied the man. “You are well-spoken. Have you been educated?”
Marcus hung his head. “I used to be a monk, sir. I have some learning.”
“So you would know Latin if you heard it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you recognize what the man said?” he asked.
“It was hard to hear, and I was drunk,” Marcus admitted.
Gurgurest began to speak, but Arthur raised his hand. “Quiet.” The king’s mouth fell open in shock, and his queen gaped in astonishment at the young man on the throne. “How far away did you keep your pitchfork?”
“It was in the hay behind the house, near where we kept our cow. Not far.”
“What difference does the location of the pitchfork make?” Gurgurest asked, surly.
“If it was nearby, it would have been obvious to run for it. If it was farther away, then his story is less likely,” Arthur said. “But I do not need to explain my questioning to you, King Gurgurest.”
Marcus shuffled forward on his knees. “Oh, my lord, please spare me! The only wrong that I have done is to leave my monastery for love, and to drink too much on a holy day. Forgive me!”
The High King said softly, “Did you love your wife?”
“With all my heart. I left the priesthood to be with her.” He looked away. “It was our shame, but it’s true. I couldn’t live without her.”
“Did you have children?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is the night watchman now?” Arthur asked.
The herald looked at Gurgurest, who nodded to him. “I can retrieve him, Your Majesty.”
“Do. We will wait until you return.”
The people in the gallery whispered among themselves as the proceedings paused. Merlin came up the dais and leaned close to Arthur. “What is your plan?”
“I need to hear what happened from every point of view, don’t I?” he asked. “How can I know what really happened without hearing from everyone who was there?”
Merlin nodded and sat back down.
After a long delay, the night watchman was brought before them, glassy-eyed from broken sleep. He dragged his cap from his head and bowed to the kings on their thrones. “My lords,” he said. “How can I serve you?”
Arthur held up his hand and called for silence, and the room obeyed. He turned back to the watchman. “What is your name?”
“Lugh.”
“Lugh, do you recognize the man before you?”
He gestured to the kneeling man, and Lugh leaned closer to look into the man’s face. “Oh! I do know. This is that murderer, Marcus.”
“It is Marcus, yes, but I have not yet determined if he is a murderer or not,” Arthur advised him. “Tell me your side of the story.”
The night watchman looked at King Gurgurest, who nodded to him and motioned for him to continue. Arthur was annoyed that the man hadn’t simply followed his instruction, but he let it pass.
“I was walkin’ my rounds when I heard screamin’. I ran to this man’s house and saw where he’d murdered his poor wife. She was on the floor, bleedin’, with a knife stickin’ out h
er chest. I grabbed him right away and took him to the castle for judgment.”
“How did you know this man was the killer?”
“Well, he was the only one there.”
“Could the killer not have fled?”
Lugh looked surprised, as if the thought was novel. “I… I suppose so. But I didn’t see nobody else.”
“Is this man’s house in the middle of a section of houses, or is it on a corner?”
“In the middle, sir.”
“Are there alleys nearby?”
Lugh shifted on his feet. “Well… yes…”
“He said that he had a cow - was there a garden behind his house where a killer might have hidden? A straw pile that he might have concealed himself inside?” The watchman looked at Gurgurest, and Arthur snapped, “I am the one questioning you. Don’t look to him.”
“Why are you mad at me?” Lugh whined. “I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Answer the question.”
He sighed. “Yes. Lots of places he could have hid.”
“Did you search those places, to see if someone was hiding? Maybe even in the house?”
“No, my lord.”
Arthur frowned. “Why not?”
“Uh...because… because he was reekin’ of drink, and she was his wife, and it was his house, and… I didn’t.”
“Did he tell you that someone else had been there?”
“Well, yes, sir, but...of course he would. He said someone else did it.”
“And you made no effort to find if there was someone else about?”
He looked at Gurgurest. “Well… No, sir.”
“Did you talk to his neighbors, ask them what they saw or heard?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“You accuse a grieving husband of murder and bring him to a place where he might be executed for the crime, but it didn’t matter?” Arthur’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Tell me, Lugh. How long have you been night watchman?”
Lugh looked to Gurgurest again, this time with panic. “A year or so, sir.”
“How did you get the job?”
The king of Eburacum demanded, “What difference does that make?”
Arthur frowned at Gurgurest. “It matters because I say it does. Hold your tongue. This is my court today.” The turned back to the men before him. “Answer me, Lugh.”
“King Gurgurest appointed me, sir, as a demotion from the palace guard.”
“Why were you demoted?”
Lugh shifted nervously again, twisting his cap as if he meant to choke the life out of it. “I was accused of stealing food from the kitchens, sir.”
“Stealing from the kitchens? And you were only demoted?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, sir. It weren’t proved.”
“And who accused you?”
“Uh…” He looked at Gurgurest again.
Arthur demanded, “Why do you keep looking to this king when your High King is questioning you? Keep your eyes upon me, Lugh.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked down and said, “It were Marcus.”
“This Marcus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s the one who accused you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Marcus, how did you know that Lugh stole from the kitchens?”
The prisoner said, “I saw him, sir.”
“With your own eyes? Here at the palace?”
“Yes, sir. My wife… she was a baker here for King Gurgurest, and I was meeting her to walk her home when I saw this man slip a loaf of my wife’s bread under his cloak and scurry off with it.” Marcus looked at Lugh, who was glaring at him furiously. “My wife made a ruckus, and I told the herald what I saw.”
“I see.” Arthur sat back. “Tell me, King Gurgurest, when someone is accused of murder, what happens to his worldly goods?”
Gurgurest tapped his finger on the arm of his throne. “If the accused has no family, then his chattel and belongings are given to the accuser as a reward.”
“Interesting. The law is the same in Cambria, where I was reared.” He looked at Lugh. “Where do you live?”
“In… in a house, sir.”
“In Marcus’s house?”
“It’s mine now, sir, but...yes.” Lugh looked profoundly uncomfortable and began to wring his hands around his cap even harder.
“Before this accusation was made, where did you live?”
The discomfort was turning into anger. “I ain’t the one on trial! He’s an oath breaker and a killer!”
Arthur looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Answer the question and do not raise your voice to me.”
Lugh wisely mastered his tone. “In a taverna. I slept by the hearth.”
“Doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
Lugh looked down. “It weren’t.”
“Marcus,” he said, and the prisoner turned to him. “The knife that killed your wife - did it belong to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Does anyone know where that knife is now?”
“We buried it with the man’s wife,” Gurgurest told Arthur. “It would have been haunted and nobody wanted it now that it had tasted blood.”
Merlin chuckled, breaking his long silence. Many eyes turned to him with startled suspicion and even fear. He said nothing.
“I see.” He looked at Marcus, then at Lugh. “There is no proof that this man killed his wife. There was no proper attempt made to see if an assassin was hiding somewhere else nearby, and no effort was made to speak to any other possible witnesses to the crime. Furthermore, you, the accuser, stood to gain much from the charge - his house, his belongings, and revenge for the loss of position that you suffered.”
“Sir!” Lugh protested.
“I call you perjurer,” Arthur announced. “And I find Marcus to be falsely accused.” The gallery rumbled with whispers as the High King turned to the guards. “Release him.”
Marcus began to weep and burble his gratitude while Lugh protested. “But, sir!”
“Be grateful that he was not put to death before I could hear this case,” Arthur told Lugh, “or you would be called a murderer, yourself. As for your greed and your perjury, and my deep suspicion that you yourself might be the killer… you are stripped of your belongings, which will be returned to Marcus, who was wrongfully deprived of them in the first place. I have no proof of your involvement with the crime at the heart of this matter, the death of this man’s poor wife, but I am satisfied that I have proof aplenty that you are a thief and a liar. Therefore, you are expelled from Eburacum and exiled to the Saxon kingdom of Essex, where you shall stay until the day I push the Saxons from these shores. When that happens, if you still live, you’ll leave Britannia with them.”
The guards unlocked the manacles from Marcus’s wrists, and he rushed forward to hug King Arthur’s knees. Gurgurest looked at the man with disgust and pulled away, tucking his robe behind his knee to keep it from contacting the wretch. Arthur, despite the filth that coated him, put his hand upon Marcus’s shoulder and squeezed it like a friend. Marcus wept upon Arthur’s knee. The guards, meanwhile, took hold of Lugh and pulled him, protesting, from the court.
Arthur took Marcus’s hand and stood, helping the man to his feet. “God bless you, Brother Marcus, and for all that you have suffered, may He give you succor for your pain. You are free.”
Marcus wept over his hand, pressing his lips to Arthur’s skin over and over. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you for your mercy.”
Merlin gestured toward the former prisoner, and he was suddenly as clean as if he had never been in a cell. Marcus’s sobs intensified, and Arthur embraced him.
“Be at peace,” he whispered to him. “I am sorry I can’t bring your wife back to you. Go now and resume your life as best you can.”
One of the honor guards came forward and gently led Marcus away, and Arthur sat back down upon the throne. Merlin again used his magic to clean the s
mudges from Arthur’s clothes.
Gurgurest said, “I would have executed him on the basis of the accusation.”
Arthur nodded. “I know.”
The rest of the cases that Gurgurest had reserved for him were more cut and dried, and his decisions came with much less drama. He dispensed the justice that he thought was fair. It was clear that his host believed that his punishments were far too lenient, but Arthur had no taste for spilling the blood of his own people. Mercy won more hearts than cruelty, and he needed the Britons to love him.
When the gallery was cleared at last, Gurgurest and his queen excused themselves and left the throne room, the king striding out in an angry huff. Arthur turned to Merlin and Sir Ector and let out a long breath.
“Oh my God,” he said. “I’m so relieved that’s over.”
Ector chuckled and came to him, putting his good hand on his foster son’s shoulder. “You did a fine job, and I am so proud of you.”
Arthur beamed.
“This is just one day of court business,” Merlin pointed out. “Once the wars are over and you have your seat of power, you will have this to look forward to every single day.”
“Every day? God forbid!”
“You would be shocked how many complaints are brought before a sitting king.”
Sir Ector looked at Merlin. “Where will his seat of power be? Caerleon?”
“For a time.” The druid smiled mysteriously. “I have something else in mind.”
“Gone?” Lot asked, frowning. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”
The serving woman who had been sent to retrieve Gawain from his bed stood nervously, her hands clutching her apron. “He was not in his bed, master, and his armor and weapons were gone.”
The king frowned more deeply and said, “Bring me Gaheris.”
His boys were thick as thieves, and he knew that if anyone would have information about his heir’s whereabouts, it would be his second-born. The boy came promptly, dressed in his mail and gauntlets, his helmet in his hands.
“Were you practicing, boy?” Lot asked him.
“Yes, sir. Training with the sword master, sir.” Gaheris bobbed a perfunctory bow. Lot’s retainers, who filled the room, chuckled at his boyish earnestness.