by Jean Gill
‘She twists words,’ protested the husband. ‘Whatever she swears, she lay with another man and carries proof in her belly!’
His words earned him another kick and command from the guards. ‘Silence!’
Dragonetz quoted from the Usatges. ‘Adultery which could not be overlooked has always been judged, settled or punished according to law.’ He spoke directly to the petitioner. ‘You have the right to settle in private, whatever you believe, whether you are right or wrong.’ He didn’t point out how much ‘settling’ had already been carried out on the wife’s body. It was the husband’s right.
‘She should be stoned,’ muttered the man. ‘I want the full law.’
‘Then the full law it shall be. As is meet, men are judged by their degree. As a knight bears more responsibility for others so does his oath bear more weight and, if he commits a crime, he must be judged as a knight. What manner of man are you?’
The answer was obvious from the man’s weathered looks and rough garb. ‘A peasant, my Lord.’
‘Then oaths have no currency whatever either of you may swear. You accuse this woman of cuccugia. The Usatges of Barcelone pronounce that the wife of a peasant must answer to such an accusation from her husband through the ordeal of boiling water. Let her place her arm up to the elbow in a vat of boiling water, and if she is innocent God will heal her. Within three days there will be signs of healing or ailing, showing her innocence or her guilt. Let the ordeal occur in a sanctified place so that God’s judgement will be in his own house.
Should she be innocent, you must honourably keep her and make compensation to her. If she is guilty, she is returned to your custody in dishonour, with all she has, for your disposal.’
‘The whore’s guilty,’ muttered the man. He sneered, ‘But boiling water and a festering arm will be a start.’
The wife showed no gratitude. Dragonetz had expected none, although ordeal by water was preferable to the removal of noses, lips, ears and breasts by blade and ‘burning at the stake if necessary’ recommended as justice for women. With God on her side, the woman might hope for a scalded arm, a verdict of innocence and a future with the man beside her. And a baby, who might or might not look like his father. Which might or might not be a good thing.
‘I have cited the Usatges,’ continued Dragonetz, ‘but what is writ can only be a guide.’ He bowed to Ramon Berenguer. ‘The authority in this matter is my Lord Comte de Barcelone, Prince of Aragon, whose judgement is known throughout Christendom and beyond.’ And let’s hope to God he is in more of a boiling water mood than one for cutting off body parts. ‘There are times one must make an example,’ Ramon had told his men, when commenting on the Usatges.
‘Well summed up, my Lord Dragonetz. We would not usually spend as long on such a common affair, but sharing our knowledge of the law is important, so that our citizens may dwell in peace and security.
God knows which of these two tells truth, so God’s judgement is truly needed; the ordeal by water fits the lack of clear evidence. Most men would be overjoyed at the gift from God of a son and heir, and there has been many a Zechariah surprised by this treasure late in life. They do not cast aspersions on their wives’ chastity.’
An interesting slant, thought Dragonetz. Almost implying a man could look the other way and be grateful for the issue he could not otherwise produce. Never underestimate Ramon’s knowledge of people. It seemed Ramon had not reacted favourably to the plaintiff.
‘My Lord Dragonetz has made clear what the trial shall be and what its outcomes mean but he overlooked one fine point of the law.’ All eyes were now fixed on Ramon Berenguer. ‘Should this woman be found guilty, all her possessions shall be divided equally between her husband and his Liege Lord, for any criminal act is an affront to the law itself, as represented by the Authority in any realm, as well as an affront to the wronged individual.’
Ramon addressed the husband directly. ‘If you win your case, your marriage is without honour and you lose half of all goods this woman brought with her as dowry or has as personal possession. As you disown the child she carries, he will belong to your Liege, and to protect this property I decree that the adulteress and her child be placed in your Lord’s service until the child is seven years of age and no longer needs his mother. Then she must return to your custody.’
‘But that’s not right!’ The husband earned another swift kick.
‘The law is not your lapdog,’ declared Ramon, letting his voice ring out round the Hall. ‘When you choose to go to process, you put your affairs in the hands of a greater authority and must abide by the judgment given. If you would decide your own affairs, you err in coming here.’ Several people shuffled out the Hall, avoiding eye contact.
‘If this woman is found innocent,’ continued Ramon, ‘you may return home with your wife, and cherish her in all honour, and enjoy the babe growing up at your hearth, learning your trade and calling you father. You have three days to prepare yourself for the justice you have called down on your wife.’
He turned to El Rey Lobo. ‘This is my judgement, my Lord.’
The Wolf King nodded. ‘It is well said. Take the woman to the entry to the mosque and let her ordeal be in the sight of Allah and all our citizens.’
Cowed, hunched over, the man slunk away to hide among the waiting petitioners, irrelevant, as his wife was led by guards out of the Hall. After a moment’s hesitation, the husband followed her, tied to his wife’s fate by more than Ramon’s words. Dragonetz wondered what the man hoped for now, knowing that he would be so much worse off if he gained the guilty verdict he had asked for. Never underestimate Ramon, he told himself again as there was a commotion at the back of the Hall.
Guards responded instantly to the kafuffle, which also drew the Wolf King’s attention. A space was cleared around an odd-shaped creature silhouetted in the doorway, a creature that screeched in high dudgeon and flapped giant wings; that dwindled from mythical beast to a falconer carrying an unhooded goshawk on his glove. A very irate goshawk.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ roared El Rey Lobo, jumping to his feet at the perceived threat. Dragonetz winced as the hawk bated and its handler struggled to soothe the orange-eyed madness of the bird as it flapped and fought its tether. All present knew enough of hawks and wolves to keep a respectful distance from both and hold their tongues.
The calm, carrying tones of Ramon Berenguer surprised the silence. ‘My apologies, my Lord. I had no opportunity to apprise you of my intentions. I wanted to give a lesson in obedience and I was sure you’d approve. May I?’
It was unwise for any ruler to allow chaos in his Hall, amid throngs of petitioners, many unhappy with the judgements (for in most judgements only one person can be happy); amidst men who might be rivals, guards who might be bribed; amidst new allies who had not yet agreed terms.
El Rey Lobo bared his teeth. He had always admired courage above wisdom.
The Comte de Barcelone remained seated, gaze fixed on the young falconer, who seemed to have the hawk under control again. Once more, Ramon’s judgement was key, and he didn’t know Vertat. He hadn’t manned the hawk, walking cobbled streets with a goshawk riding one shoulder. He hadn’t flown the hawk, seeing the hare behind the hedge with twilight eyes and accepting the death-shriek. Crucially, he had never felt Vertat fly to the glove. But he was skilled in hawking, and he knew full well what the consequence of his words would be. A lesson in obedience.
‘Dragonetz.’ No courtesy, no ‘My Lord’ or ‘If you please’. The command must be clearly seen as such. ‘Call your hawk to you. I wish El Rey Lobo to see the quality of our training.’
Standing behind Ramon, Dragonetz obeyed without hesitation. He held out his arm and spoke, without emotion, as loud and clear as his Liege. ‘As you wish, my Lord.’
Without checking what their king thought, everyone in the Hall gasped, looking from that naked wrist and hand – his right hand, his sword arm – to the talons of an enraged goshawk. No protection, no lur
e, no reward. If there had been time to place bets, the highest pile of coins would have been on Dragonetz losing an eye as well as a hand.
There was no time for such bets.
‘Vertat,’ his master called as Bran flung the bird into the air. The many people who ducked and doubled-over missed the seconds of confusion, of hesitation perched on a rafter – an anti-climax after all? But no, the orange eyes saw the one who’d named her, who’d called her, and who always made it worth her while to land on that thin branch he stretched in front of him. She didn’t need the encouraging whistle from Dragonetz; she was already in flight, talons outstretched, beak dagger-sharp to take the flesh offered...
... when Ramon laid his arm on top of Dragonetz’, his gloved right hand bouncing with the weight as Vertat landed, his left hand feeding the expected strips of dried rabbit. The hawk chittered a complaint, looked El Rey Lobo unblinking in the eyes. She shifted her feet anxiously before making her usual run to settle on a shoulder.
My beauty Dragonetz told Vertat, savouring the glorious sweep of her flight, the finely judged landing on another man’s hand.
Two fine judgements. Although you left it a little late, my Liege. But there had never been any doubt. Ramon and he had ridden together long enough to trust. He did not move his arm till Vertat was gone. He needed to feel her weight, even through another man, one last time. His shoulder ached with absence, already.
Bran had pushed through the bemused onlookers, was claiming the bird. He offered more dried meat to calm her, then slipped on her hood and moved her to his well-padded shoulder. Let the hawk think herself safe as night. After all, Vertat was in his care now.
‘I would like to buy that hawk,’ said El Rey Lobo. Another one taking the bait.
‘She belongs to Lord Dragonetz,’ replied Ramon. ‘Such training is priceless. Is that not so, my Lord?’
So, I am a Lord again, after the lesson in obedience, Dragonetz noted, saying nothing. Ramon played his part perfectly, too perfectly. Perhaps it gave him pleasure to play high-handed with his most creative knight.
‘Yes, Sire.’
They had not misjudged El Rey Lobo. ‘We have not yet signed,’ he pointed out, his desire to own the hawk darkening his eyes. ‘You were unhappy with one of the terms. I could be generous in return for such a gift.’
Ramon appeared to consider the matter. Dragonetz had no need to act his own apprehension at the prospect of losing Vertat. A hawk with sweeping wing. Neither of them looked at Malik.
Chewing his lip, Ramon came to a hard decision. Bargaining must never be easy if both parties were to be satisfied. ‘Barcelone and Aragon would like to present this hawk as a gift to the king, as she has so pleased him. What do you say, my Lord Dragonetz? Is it not fitting?’
‘It is an honour, my Lord, for my goshawk to be chosen.’ The word my could be salt on a wound. He addressed El Rey Lobo. ‘Her name is Vertat, Truth in my language, and she has flown straight as truth for me since the day I made her mine. I commend to you her keeper, Bran, who is as loyal to the bird as I to my Liege. He knows her ways, and will prove as true as Vertat should you accept him into your service.’
Bran made some sort of awkward motion with his hands gesturing obeisance, as any hint of a bow would be taken by the goshawk on his shoulder for an insult.
‘We are agreed!’ El Rey Lobo’s smile sent a wave of relief around the Hall. ‘Enough for today.’ He dismissed the court and petitioners in one gesture.
Those who’d spent a day or more hoping for justice risked the question, ‘When?’ and were told with cuffs and kicks to wait until their waiting was over – and to think themselves lucky.
Ignoring lesser mortals, the king ordered that his new acquisitions be taken to the mews. ‘Let us adjourn to somewhere quiet and sign our agreement.’
‘Let’s,’ agreed Ramon Berenguer. He turned to his commanders. ‘Please inspect the men. We’ll raise camp tomorrow and return home.’
Dismissed, Dragonetz and Malik went by silent accord to the stables. In private, the friends allowed themselves a moment’s weakness; a hug, a tear, a hand that shook.
‘The price was too high,’ murmured Malik. ‘I could have served here a year or two. She was the hawk of your life.’
‘Dearest friend of my mind, I thought he would hold out for Sadeek!’
‘Then both our hearts would have broken.’
‘I will not have another hawk.’ The pause grieved. Friends do not place such weight on each other for too long. ‘You’ll have to find me a hound instead,’ teased Dragonetz.
Malik was not ready to smile, not yet believing he would be allowed to ride home. But he tried to answer lightness with lightness. ‘Nici would not allow it.’
Dragonetz imagined Estela’s great white guard dog welcoming some upstart wolfhound or long-eared scent dog into the family. ‘If he did, I suspect he would take charge of the training, not me!’
They went to the camp and ensured that the men would be ready to ride out the next day. The word ‘home’ worked its own miracles of efficiency.
John Halfpenny was outside one of the tents and Dragonetz stopped to thank him for his work. ‘El Rey Lobo says his Mintmaster was well pleased with the help you gave.’
Halfpenny shrugged. ‘I just told them to make two trussles for every pile because there’s more wear and tear on the lower die. Saved them some waste.’
Dragonetz wasn’t sure whether his expression showed polite interest or complete ignorance but Halfpenny took the lack of response as an invitation. He explained, ‘You need a pair of dies, one long one with the coin image on the top and one stubby one with the coin’s other image. You nail the long one, the trussle, to a block, put the coin on it and hammer the top die down, making the two sides.’ His arms were making their accustomed movements as he spoke and Dragonetz was surprised by the bulging muscles. Not such a useless man in a fight after all, he noted, as he continued making his rounds.
Dragonetz did not ride at twilight, when a king would be flying his new hawk, exalting in her. Instead he sought his Liege.
‘He signed?’
‘He signed,’ confirmed Ramon Berenguer, new grey in his beard. ‘That was bravely done, Dragonetz. I owe you a boon. Do not hesitate to ask.’
Dragonetz already knew what boon he sought. His need had come to him while riding the plains at dawn and dusk, knowing that the secrets he carried were too heavy for him and that he must seek help.
The word ‘home’ filled him with equal dread and joy. Estela was his life but while he kept from her all that he knew, there was a barrier between them. Yet it was his duty to protect her and he could not speak, especially now, after months of pretending. How could he tell her that Geoffroi de Rançon, the man she thought to be their friend, had murdered the youth they’d rescued in the Holy Land?
He should have told her straight away, when he found out, but de Rançon’s death had upset Estela so much that Dragonetz didn’t have the heart to speak ill of the dead. He’d been shocked himself, unable to speak of the evil he’d uncovered. His deepest fear was that if he did try to find the words, Estela would not believe him, would think jealousy spoke.
No, it was all too difficult to untangle now. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. There came a time in every man’s life where he eased his troubled soul in walking and this was his time. He would share his burden with the Lord, do penance for his own sins and seek the strength to endure these secrets between him and his lady. She would be over her grief and he could forget de Rançon. Then they could be happy together.
As Dragonetz expected, Ramon Berenguer did not question his knight’s desire to be a pilgrim. But Lord knew what Estela would make of it.
HOWEVER LONG YOU WERE away from home, it was always the nights just before you returned that tormented you most, anticipating your lover warm in your arms. He ought to be enjoying his last night in El Rey Lobo’s castle and a comfortable bed, but he might as well have lain on cactus prickles. Dragonetz shifted p
osition yet again, conscious of the empty cot beside his, and of Ramon sleeping peacefully on his other side.
The door swung open slowly and Malik slipped back in, cautious in the dark. Soft clunks as he removed his boots. A rustle as he settled back under the blanket.
‘You reached her?’ Dragonetz whispered.
‘I reached one who will ensure the poultice is applied. There will be no infection, just some scarring.’
‘Is that the better choice?’ Reconciliation with such a man? Was it possible?
‘The alternative could be death if infection took hold. Perhaps the child will heal other wounds.’
‘She...’ Dragonetz stumbled over the words and tried again. ‘It could have been...’
‘No,’ said Malik. ‘No, it couldn’t have been. There is no likeness in their situations. Nor in their characters.’
Dragonetz hid his tears in darkness and silence.
‘You are outgrowing my service, Dragonetz.’ Ramon Berenguer was not asleep and his disembodied voice had the authority of God himself. ‘Today you gave judgement on my behalf and none could improve on your manner or your decision. The time is coming when you will rule on your own behalf. A man can be a king in his own domain if he rules well, be it Aragon or a fief in Aquitaine.’
‘My Lord,’ Dragonetz murmured, not willing to point out that Ramon’s nickname El Sant indicated, among other things, that his domestic circumstances were rather more acceptable to the church than were his own. Nor that the fief in Aquitaine to which he should be heir was currently willed to the devil by Dragonetz’ own words to his father. No doubt Ramon could quote an appropriate Usatge to cover Dragonetz’ circumstances – or if not, he would set about formulating one.
When finally sleep took Dragonetz, it brought the leap and crackle of flames. Even asleep, he knew that he should stay away from the fire but the flames held such fascination. They drew him closer until he could hold back no longer and he leapt into the white-hot heart of fire till his sword Talharcant was edged in silver flame and he himself had melted, ready for the forge, a hammer poised over his head.