It had not occurred to him that his might not be the only dispute to be judged that day, but he had now waited while three different sets of jurors, plaintiffs, and defendants had been called into the inner chamber and dismissed again, some smiling, others downcast and angry. His eyes flicked around the room, counting the men he recognized from Market Weighton. Aye, the jurors were all here. When he had understood that they must wait to be called, he had quailed at the thought of waiting with Sir John, but the knight was nowhere to be seen. He must be in the chamber already, having used his influence to gain admittance.
Finally, the bailiff called his name as a group of men pushed their way from the inner chamber arguing among themselves. Edgar and his neighbors edged through the door. On a dais at the front between two torches sat the Sheriff of York dressed in a fur-trimmed tunic of black wool over leather leggings and black boots. To Edgar’s eyes he looked stern and forbidding, with his dark eyes and the puckered scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to his mouth. The Sheriff rubbed at the scar as he looked out over the room.
Edgar followed the Sheriff’s gaze and realized that Sir John was not in the chamber, though his steward Jarrold had slipped in and was sitting on a low bench at the back. The steward looked something the worse for wear, with rumpled clothing and stubble showing around his beard. He smelled strongly of sweat and horse, as if he’d slept in a stable. Not that Edgar himself was much better, having slept with Magda and two of his neighbors under a hedge outside the walls of the city. At least they had washed themselves in the river before arriving at the Castle.
The twelve sworn jurors were instructed to sit at the front of the chamber on two benches set before the dais, and the men from Market Weighton, along with two of Edgar’s neighbors and the village priest, stepped up to take their places. A bailiff called for order, and in the sudden silence de Bury called on Edgar to testify as to his ownership of the meadow in question. In a low voice that got stronger as he spoke, Edgar swore that the land had been in his family for three generations of living memory, and went on to describe Sir John’s fencing of the meadow and his wanton destruction of the planted wheat field. When he had finished, de Bury asked for Sir John to come forward with his claim. The jurors looked at each other, and a dark-haired man with a shaggy beard said, “He ain’t here, my lord.”
“Has he sent a representative?” asked de Bury.
All eyes turned towards the back of the room. Jarrold looked to either side as if to convince himself that Sir John was not there, then rose and shuffled forward. His thin face was creased in deep wrinkles running vertically down his cheeks, and dark smudges lay under his eyes. Pale hair hung in greasy clumps almost to his shoulders. In a low voice and with his eyes on the stone floor at the jurors’ feet, he gave his name as Jarrold Thorney, declaring himself to be Sir John’s steward and stating that he and Sir John had arrived in York the day before, but that he was unable to say where the knight was.
“Aye,” said de Bury. “But does Sir John own the meadow? As his steward, you should be able to answer that.”
Jarrold nodded and cleared his throat. Sir John’s father had, he claimed, purchased the meadow from Edgar’s grandfather, and had graciously allowed the farmer and his descendants to use the land for pasture, but now Sir John planned to use the land himself.
“Is there a bill of sale?” asked de Bury. “Speak up, Master Thorney, and look at me when you answer.”
Jarrold raised his eyes to de Bury’s feet. “There was, my lord, but twas burnt in a fire at the manor almost two decades ago,” he mumbled. One of the jurors snorted in disbelief, and there was a burst of derisive laughter.
“Silence!” said de Bury. “There will be no outbursts in this court.” He turned back to Jarrold. “Did you see the bill itself before the fire?”
“Nay, my lord, twas before my time. I’ve been steward for Sir John but five years.”
De Bury rubbed at his scar and frowned. “And you have no idea where Sir John is now?”
“Nay, my lord. I spent the night watching our horses down by Micklegate Bar. Sir John went to speak to the Archdeacon. I assume he found lodgings in the city.”
De Bury furrowed his brows, then shook his head slightly. “As he is not present, we have no choice but to continue. Jurors, what is your verdict? You have seen the land in question and you have knowledge of the locality, twas why you were chosen. I remind you that you have sworn to judge fairly, to the best of your ability. You may take time to discuss, if you wish.”
The jurors put their heads together, with those at the ends of the rows leaving their seats to hear. In a matter of moments, Father Robert rose to face de Bury, smoothing his faded cassock. The jurors were all grinning. “We find for the plaintiff, my lord,” the priest announced. “Tis unanimous. The meadow belongs to Edgar Westcote.” Edgar gasped aloud. The jurors cheered, and the bailiff called sharply for silence.
De Bury waited for the chamber to quiet. “You have heard the jury,” he said. “Master Westcote, Master Thorney, you will each receive a written record of the proceedings. Master Thorney, when you find Sir John, you may tell him that he must remove the fence erected around Master Westcote’s meadow within a fortnight. He must also pay damages to Master Westcote for the destruction of his wheat field. If Sir John wishes to pursue the matter further, he may do so at the Grand Assize.” De Bury stood and descended from the dais as Edgar and the jurors cheered again. With an apologetic shrug, Jarrold slipped silently from the chamber.
◆◆◆
Magda Westcote spread her bundles of herbs on the apothecary’s counter and waited anxiously as Master Holt examined them. He was a short man with a sharp nose, dark eyes, and a pointed beard. When she had come into the tiny shop his stern face and brusque manner had almost frightened her off, but she had kept her courage and he had agreed to look at her herbs.
“They are common, I know, but I thought twas worth coming in,” she said, biting her lower lip. “The plants are healthy, as you can see.” Holt nodded, his long fingers sorting through the rosemary, then lifting a sprig to his nose to sniff.
“Are you new in York?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Mistress – ?”
“Westcote. Nay, I’m not from York at all. I live out by Market Weighton,” Magda said.
Holt looked up in surprise, but Magda’s eyes were on her herbs and she did not notice. “My husband Edgar is here for a Petty Assize,” she continued. “He bought a Writ of Novel Dis…dis-something, twas to prove part of our land is ours, though Sir John Talbot has fenced it and says tis his. Most all our coin is gone to pay for it, and Sir John destroyed our wheat planting in revenge. Now my husband says we will have to sell our horse to survive the winter.” The words had come out in a rush. Magda flushed, embarrassed at having poured out their troubles to a stranger. She faltered, “I came with him to see if anyone would buy my herbs.”
Holt’s hands had frozen. With a curt nod, he began stacking the bundles in the center of the counter. Magda’s heart sank. But when Holt looked up at her his eyes had lost their sharpness and his face was kind. “Your husband is a brave man to defy Sir John,” he said. “If tis true he’s done so, I’ll buy the lot, whether I need them or no.”
“Aye, tis true,” said Magda with a rueful laugh. “I’ll be grateful if you buy any, the writ was so dear.”
Holt picked up the stack of herbs and placed them on a shelf below the counter. “As I said, I’ll buy them all. I’ve no love for Sir John Talbot, nor any who hold with him.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you recall Sir John’s old steward, the one he ran off the manor with no pay?”
“Aye,” said Magda in surprise. “I remember Master Eric well – he were a good man. Sir John set his dogs on him, and he were hurt something awful, almost killed. Tis said he were run off for taking the part of the serfs against Sir John.”
“Aye, that’s the right of it,” said Holt. “Master Eric Holt is his full name. He is my brother. Th
e dogs broke his limbs and near took his eyes out, left him so crippled and scarred I could scarce recognize him. He’s off down in Lincolnshire now, trying to keep body and soul together in the service of the Bishop. Tis a full five years since I’ve seen him, and tis all because of John Talbot.”
Magda shook her head in sympathy. “Aye,” she said. “He’s a brute and no mistake. But he’ll get his comeuppance, and when he does, he’ll burn in Hell for all he’s done. Folk will not stand for such things much longer. Perhaps if my Edgar wins at the Assize, twill make other folk brave enough to defy him as well, or so we may hope.”
“Aye, we may hope,” said Holt, “but twill not happen. Sir John is a wolf among sheep, if I remember the village aright. Your husband is a rare man. There will not be other such among the folk in Market Weighton, not unless things have changed since I were there.”
Magda nodded. Aye, he was right. The folk in the village were good and kind, willing to help their neighbors in trouble, as Dafydd and his brothers were helping them now. Yet she could not think of a soul in the village who would have the courage to cross Sir John directly save Edgar alone. A ripple of fear ran through her as she thought of what they had done. Again she wished Sir John would die; if twas sinful to think so, so be it.
When she left, her pouch was full of jingling coins and Holt had given her the name of a gardener who might be willing to give her cuttings of some of his rarer plants. Heedless of the rain, she hurried through the narrow streets toward the Castle, glad to have found a friend in York, but wondering how folk could live all crowded together like this, with the smoke from a hundred fires and the stink of each other’s waste in their nostrils every day. Whatever had happened at the Assize and however kind the apothecary, they could not leave the city too soon for her.
Blanche
Talbot Manor, January 1268
A thick rime of ice had formed on the shutter above her straw pallet on the floor of the attic room, and the wash water she had carried up the ladder-like stair the night before was frozen solid. Twas said this was the coldest January in memory and the snow lay deep on the ground. She snuggled deeper into the small cocoon of warmth her body had created under the blanket and the cloak she had laid upon it. Twas not yet dawn, but she knew she must be rising soon to bring in water from the well if twas not frozen so thick she could not break it, and snow to melt by the fire if twas. Twould be a quiet day, for Sir John and the hunting master had been drinking all the night and would likely sleep almost till Nones. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could do her work quickly and well and avoid Julian’s wrath. When spring came, she would leave this place. If Sir John set his dogs to track her, she would fight until he was forced to kill her. But if she could get to the little river past the forest, perhaps she could evade the dogs and be free, somewhere far from here. Anywhere was better than here.
Footsteps sounded at the base of the stairs, and she sat up with a gasp as the blanket fell away, leaving her shoulders exposed to the frigid air. She glanced at the shutter, but nay, there was no light in the cracks, so she had not fallen asleep again and overslept. Still, it could only be Julian coming to wake her with a blow and a hard word. What had happened that the cook was up so early? She found the tinder by the rushlight as the steps came up the stairs, but could not get the spark to catch. Shivering in her shift, she groped in the dark for her gown and apron, thinking that if she were dressed when Julian opened the door, she might escape a slap. She had turned away from the door to pull the gown from its peg when it opened to let in a flood of light from a lantern and the rank odors of sweat and sour wine.
Blanche froze as the familiar groping fingers passed over her body, plucking at her thin shift. Sir John’s barking laugh sounded, and he nuzzled her neck, his hands squeezing her breasts, his breath nauseating as it brushed her face. Rage rose within her, twould not happen here, twas her sanctuary, the only place of her own. She twisted in his grasp and lashed out wildly, finding his face and scratching as deep as her nails would reach. Pain exploded at the side of her head and she found herself face-down in the floor rushes with Sir John’s hands lifting her shift. Twisting again, she flung her arm at his face, groping for his eyes. When his fist hit her jaw, she heard something crack and screamed as the pain arced through her body. Still she fought him, but no matter how she hit and scratched and bit, he was too strong for her, too skilled in inflicting pain. The punches rained down until she could no longer see and her mouth streamed blood back into her throat. His weight pushed her flat to the stone floor and she struggled to draw breath as tears of rage streamed down her cheeks.
When it was finally over and he had left her lying naked on her pallet, she stared with one eye at the sloped ceiling in the dim light from the shutter, wondering if she had gone blind in the other. It did not seem to matter much. Her teeth chattered from shock and cold, but she could not bring herself to move to find her blanket. Perhaps she would lie here until she froze and Julian came to find her body. After a while she lost consciousness.
She awoke to Lizzie’s scream of alarm. “I knew twould happen! Oh, Blanche, what has he done to you?” Blanche felt the rough wool of the blanket scrape over her abraded skin and flinched. Lizzie disappeared, her steps echoing in the staircase. Blanche drifted, letting the black wave carry her back into blessed oblivion.
But as time passed, it became ever harder to stay in the blackness. Cloths filled with warm water cleaned the blood from her face and body, hands wrapped linen bandages around her head, covering the eye that would not open. Cool water and hot broth were held to her lips. She opened her good eye to see Julian bending over her. A second woman in an undyed wool dress and white wimple stood behind her holding a basin with a bloody cloth draped over it. “You should not have fought him,” said Julian. “He would not have felt the need to hurt you so.”
Blanche stiffened and turned her face away, seeking the darkness.
Chapter 8
York, April 1273
Cordwainer rubbed his bad hip and glared at the ladder leading up to the tavern’s third story. Twas the only private room Osric had on offer, the taverner had explained, and Sir John was not willing to share. Cordwainer couldn’t blame him for that, the shared rooms slept three and sometimes four to a bed. But the steep stairs had set his hip and leg aching, and now he was expected to pull himself up to yet another floor on a ladder. Tis the damp that gets into the joint, he told himself. Twill be raining by the time we go home, and the hip even worse. He laid his stick carefully on the wooden floorboards and started.
Thomas had already ascended, followed by Osric, and he could hear Osric’s flat voice saying something in response to the lad’s cry of alarm on seeing the body. Twas not like Thomas to be upset at the sight of a death – what must Sir John look like? He tried to hurry, placed too much weight on the bad leg, and slipped. With a loud curse, he clung to the ladder with both hands, found his footing, and pulled himself up again.
As his head rose above the floor of the chamber, Osric reached down to haul him up the rest of the way. The tiny room was crowded with three men in it, and he pushed himself past Osric to look around. Twas a common enough tavern room, with a straw mattress on an uncurtained bedframe, a rushlight and wash basin on a shelf by the bed, and a low bench below the single waxed-parchment window. Leather boots lay on the floor and the bench held riding breeches, a shirt and tunic, and a long surcoat, but there were no bags of any kind, nor even a change of clothing. What clothing there was smelled strongly of sweat and horse.
Sir John lay naked on the bed, his limbs contorted as if in a spasm of pain, his small eyes red and bulging in his fleshy face, his lips drawn back in a grinning rictus. Twas no wonder Thomas had cried out, thought Cordwainer. He looks as if he’s suffering the torments of Hell. A blanket had been kicked to the floor, and the smell of vomit was strong on the body.
He crossed himself and stepped closer. Sir John looked much the same in death as his wife had done; even without Stefan t
o help him, Cordwainer was certain the body showed all the signs of wolfsbane poisoning. He reached out and closed the eyes, then stepped back. “I think,” he said, “that we must notify the Archdeacon of Sir John’s death.”
Osric’s mouth dropped. “In my tavern? The Archdeacon? Tis well the wife cleaned up the mess on the floor. I’ll open the window to air out the stink.” He walked over and unlatched the frame, throwing it wide. “Do I bow or summat when he comes?”
Thomas hesitated by the ladder. “The Archdeacon? Truly?”
“Aye, lad,” replied Cordwainer. “Tell him tis just like the Lady Claire. He’ll want to know.”
Thomas nodded and started down the ladder. Osric followed, calling to his wife to be ready for the Archdeacon’s visit. Cordwainer picked up the blanket and spread it over the naked body, pushing at the rigid limbs in a vain attempt to straighten them. When he turned to examine Sir John’s possessions, he noticed that a belt had fallen underneath the bench where the clothing lay. With a stifled groan, he stooped and lifted it. The belt was a well-worn length of tooled leather; an equally worn sheath held a knife, not a small eating knife as most folk carried, but a wicked-looking dagger. A soft leather pouch dangled from the belt beside it.
He pushed the clothing aside to sit on the bench, and an ale tankard rolled to the floor, falling with a heavy clank. He sat on the bench and reached for it, then set it upright by his side. Pulling the pouch from the belt, he spilled its contents onto his lap. Coins, silver and copper, with a single much-clipped gold piece, along with a second, smaller pouch that lay heavy on his knee. He untied the laces and poured a quantity of gold coins onto the pile. They sparkled red in the rushlight, and Cordwainer gasped. Why had Sir John carried so much wealth into a common tavern? He sorted through the coins, counting, then dropped the gold pieces back into their pouch and placed it in his scrip. Clearly, the larger pouch contained the coin Sir John carried to spend on his food and lodgings, twas more than most folk would have, but perhaps not so unusual for a nobleman of Sir John’s standing. The purpose of the second pouch was a mystery.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 7