[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘She is the accused’s leman! Her oath would be meaningless.’

  Cigony’s lips tightened. ‘She can take the oath on relics, can’t she? I have a shoulder blade of Saint David and a fingernail of Saint Winifred. That ought to be good enough. If not, Father Ambrose can send to the church for some more.’

  ‘Even on relics a woman’s oath has no validity,’ said Paulet in a tone that allowed no argument.

  Straccan decided to argue anyway. ‘I don’t agree. A Christian woman’s oath is as good as a man’s.’

  Sir Brian gave him an unfriendly look; his was a face made for unfriendly looks, closed, with shuttered eyes and a tight mouth that seemed reluctant to let words escape. He wasn’t good at his job, he hadn’t sought it, it wasn’t possible to profit from the office and it even cost him his own money; the refund of his expenses was always overdue, every penny disputed. But he’d had no choice. The king appointed coroners. ‘You, you, and you,’ he said, and that was that.

  ‘By law I can accept the oath of any man! he said. ‘Even, if he swears according to his custom, the oath of a Jew. But not a woman. It would be like accepting the oath of a dog!’

  So there, thought Straccan wryly. He stood on the dais beside the constable’s chair, with the coroner at the other side facing him and Alis standing below the dais, looking anxiously from one authoritarian face to the other.

  A small crowd had followed them into the hall: a couple of priests there on business, a monk, some hopeful place-seekers, two of Cigony’s squires, the captain of the castle guard and a man hoping to sell a horse. But word of this affair had got out and several townsfolk, lawyers and clerks with a professional interest, and others just plain curious had drifted in to listen.

  They all found the business of absorbing interest. Havloc’s predicament was well known, but whether he was guilty or not most folk felt sympathy for his pretty sweetheart. The story of her rescue from the bridge had spread from castle to town, losing nothing in the telling, and while no one wanted to see a murderer escape justice and a few would have been delighted to see anybody hang, Alis had many well-wishers.

  Straccan tried again. ‘If the king was to accept women’s oaths, would that change your decision?’

  The coroner sniffed. ‘I am certain he would not. His highness has a profound interest in the administration of justice and the observances of law.’ Then with a poisonous look at Straccan he sneered, ‘But I hear you are a friend of the king. No doubt you know his opinions.’

  ‘I wouldn’t presume.’ Straccan smiled. ‘Nevertheless he does accept them.’

  ‘Give me one precedent!’

  ‘There are many. He accepts the oath of fealty, the most important oath of all, from anyone, man or woman.’

  In the silence that followed the constable lifted his cup to hide his grin and said, ‘You have the right sow by the ear, Sir Richard!’ And to the coroner. ‘There are your precedents, Paulet. There is no reason why you should not take this woman’s oath. Aratcha!’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Paulet sourly. This would not have happened when William de Breos was lord here, but this upstart, this sneezing nobody, this mercenary had no respect for the law. You may be right,’ he said grudgingly, ‘but I have grave doubts. And in any case, your so-called witness,’ he sneered, ‘must produce pledges of good faith.’

  There was a sudden noise at the foot of the steps outside the hall: a sharp challenge followed by shouts of anger, cries of indignation and, loud above the confusion a great hoarse voice booming, Who will lay hands on me? Who will dare?’

  Attendants fell back, glaring and gabbling, and let the leper pass. With him came the reek and terror of his disease. People pressed back against one another, treading on toes, elbowing ribs as they tried to keep their distance from the leper. He stopped before the dais, leaning on his staff. Behind him the doorward hopped from foot to foot in a fever of anxiety.

  ‘Sir! Me lord! I couldn’t stop im!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said the constable, and to the leper, ‘What do you want here?’

  Before he could answer, the coroner, who had whipped the tail of his cloak over his nose and mouth for fear of contagion, shrilled, ‘How dare you force your way in here! The law forbids it! I’ll have you stoned out of the town gate!’

  Cigony laid a hand on Paulet’s wrist. ‘Let us see what he wants.’

  The leper was breathing hard. His cloak bore the marks of freshly flung mud and turds. When his eyes met Straccan’s he bowed, an incongruously courtly gesture from such a figure. ‘Sirs,’ he rasped, ‘forgive my intrusion.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the constable again.

  ‘It is the matter of this young gentlewoman,’ the leper grated.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Paulet trembled with anger and terror. ‘You may not come among whole folk!’

  The leper ignored him, shifting his grip on his staff and swaying as he stood. ‘I know there will be objection to her as a witness, and her oath, unsupported, will not be acceptable.’

  ‘What the devil do you know about it?’ Paulet was beside himself with rage. ‘My lord constable, have your men ring him with spears and get him out of here! This whole place must be fumigated!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Straccan. ‘Hear him.’

  ‘But if at least two men will stand as pledges for her reliability and good character,’ the leper continued as if there had been no interruption, ‘if two men can be found to vouch for her, that alters the case.’

  Cigony nodded. ‘True. Were you a man of law?’

  ‘No. But my pledge, even as I am, should suffice for one of the two if another will also give his pledge.’ He looked at Straccan, who nodded.

  ‘Your word is nothing,’ the coroner shouted. ‘You can't give evidence! You’re a dead man!’

  ‘Not as dead as the one outside just now,’ said Straccan. You were willing to hear him.’

  There were shouts of ‘Aye!’ and ‘Right enough!’

  ‘Well said, Straccan!’ Cigony was enjoying himself. He had even forgotten to sneeze. You can’t deny that, Paulet.’

  A crusted, rustling sound came from behind the leper’s mask; he was laughing.

  Paulet rounded on him. ‘Damn you, who are you?’

  ‘Do you still have the hound bitch puppy I gave you, Brian? Atropos, you called her.’

  ‘God’s mercy!’ Paulet had gone a nasty colour. ‘You! You are dead! They told me you had died!’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Cigony. ‘Who are you, sir?’

  Tears washed the leper’s sore eyes, blotting his mask. ‘Before this affliction I was Bishop of Bordeville. My name was Gamier Paulet.’

  ‘He has the same name as you,’ the constable said to Paulet. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘God have mercy,’ said the coroner again. ‘He is my brother.’

  The hall emptied rapidly once the show was over, and Straccan looked sharply at Alis. She was very pale.

  ‘I’ll take you to Lady Margery. Shall we go into the pleasance first? Some fresh air will do you good.’

  The pleasance was practical and plain, like the constable’s lady. Shrubs and bushes stood in tubs spaced like soldiers in rows. Beds of herbs were outlined with river pebbles, arranged with a severe geometry. At the far end, the constable’s wards, three little girls, played some complicated singing game. Seeing the grown-ups, they curtsied and giggled, but soon their game had them in thrall again and Straccan and Alis were ignored. There was a refreshing scent of rosemary. Alis picked a sprig and rolled it in her fingers, breathing in the fragrance. Some colour came back to her cheeks.

  ‘Mistress Alis,’ Straccan said gently, ‘you trust me, I hope?’ She nodded. ‘Then tell me what happened at Devilstone. Someone murdered your father; if it wasn’t Havloc, the killer must be found. I know you spoke with your father after Havloc had gone but you didn’t tell the jury everything.’ He felt her guilty start. ‘How did that ring get into your father’s pocket?’

 
Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Father sent me to his sister in Bristol,’ Alis said. ‘She was to find me a husband. I have no dower, you see. There are six of us girls at home and no portion for any of us. I was there three years.’ She flushed. ‘I became an embarrassment. Aunt Emma sent me home last Christmas.’

  A poor homecoming she’d had; her father blamed her for the failure. ‘You, is it?’ He scowled. ‘Back already?’ Everything had changed: her mother was gone, consigned to a nunnery; there was a new step-mother, a timid girl younger than Alis herself. Of all her sisters only the next eldest, Petronella, was glad to see her. The manor was more run-down than she remembered and the old steward had died while she was gone. A new man, Havloc, had taken his place.

  She didn’t know when she’d found herself in love with him. For a time she refused to admit it, even to herself. Knights’ daughters, however poor, could not marry commoners, especially moneyless commoners. She was afraid her guilty passion must be obvious to him but Havloc seemed rather to avoid her. He only spoke to her when necessary and never met her eyes.

  Spring followed winter, and one day she heard Havloc asking Father Alkmund about the foreign towns where the old priest had travelled in his youth: Rome, Paris, Cologne. She knew with wretched certainty that he intended to leave.

  That evening when everyone was at supper she waited in the stable until Havloc led his horse in, and stood forward in his way.

  ‘Mistress Alis! What’s the matter?’

  He met her gaze. They stared at each other. His eyes were brown with golden flecks. She hadn’t known.

  ‘Havloc,’ she said breathlessly. And because she had never spoken his name aloud and loved the sound of it, she said it again, ‘Havloc,’ and then, ‘Please, don’t leave!’

  ‘I must,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I can’t bear it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being near you — the lord’s daughter — seeing you every day, wanting you, knowing I can’t—’

  She went into his arms and silenced his mouth with hers.

  They met when they could, desperately careful, for there were eyes everywhere. Their love had no future; sooner or later Alis’s father would find a husband for her, some old dotard willing to dispense with a dowry in order to get a young virgin in his bed. She prayed the day would never come, but it came with new-widowed Sir William Redvers, sixty years old, fat, gouty, lecherous. No sooner was Lady Redvers coffined than Drogo invited him to Devilstone and dangled the pretty virginal bait before him.

  He had judged his man well. Redvers stared at Alis, breathing hard, and made no protest about her dowerless state. He pinched her breasts in front of everybody and waylaid her in corners, kissing her as if he would eat her, thrusting his tongue into her shrinking mouth and his hard bruising hands up her skirts.

  ‘A virgin, eh?’ he’d said to her father in the crowded hall. ‘You’re sure? I’ll have no man’s leavings. If she’s not I’ll cut her nose off.’ He’d ridden away, but he’d be back.

  Things happened very fast after that. Havloc had an errand for her father in Ludlow. The marriage contract would be sealed by the time he got back — unless Redvers backed out.

  He wouldn’t marry her if she wasn’t a virgin.

  That night she lay with Havloc in his narrow bed. He gave her his ring. It was loose; she had to close her fist to keep it on. In God’s sight they were now husband and wife. When he came back they would run away to France. He gave her his savings to keep, enough for their passage and a start in life once there.

  At first light they walked through the sleeping village, Havloc leading his horse. Where the highway began they kissed and clung together for a moment. He rode away.

  On the outskirts of the village was an ancient shrine to the Blessed Virgin. She knelt there, turning Havloc’s loose ring on her finger, putting it to her lips.

  ‘Blessed Lady, guard Havloc my husband on his journey. Bring him safe back. Holy Mother, sweet lady, have pity on us poor lovers…’

  Suddenly, as if he’d dropped from the sky, her father was in front of her. She shrieked. He swung his fist and knocked her down, half stunning her. Bending over her he tore the ring from her hand.

  ‘Slut, whore! Husband, by God! Lovers, by Christ! I’ll have his balls for this!’ He thrust the ring inside his coat. ‘If Redvers won’t take you now I’ll cut off your nose myself and you can join your damned mother in the nunnery!’

  He drew his dagger. She scrambled up; he knocked her down again, aimed a kick that missed, lost his balance and fell. She tried to run but he grabbed her around the knees and pulled her down, seized her hair, twisting it round his hands and shaking her so violently that strands of her hair ripped from their roots. She screamed as he shifted his grip to the neck of her gown and ripped it to the waist.

  ‘Father, please! Don’t!’

  She tried to get up; he pulled her down again. She crawled; he seized her foot, dragged her back, fell upon her, mouthing obscenities, aroused by her body, her terror, her helplessness. Sick with fear she realised what he meant to do.

  ‘Lord Jesus! Holy Virgin! Help me!’

  One of them — both perhaps — must have heard, for Talfryn the fowler came out of the trees and saw the couple on the ground, a woman struggling and crying, a man astride her.

  ‘He didn’t know it was my father, he only saw his back,’ Alis said.

  The fowler’s great fist struck the rapist on the side of the head. He collapsed upon Alis who fought to get out from beneath the heavy body.

  Only then did Talfryn see her face.

  ‘Mistress Alis? Who . .. Oh, Iesu Crist? He pulled her up. At their feet Drogo groaned and moved. ‘Run, mistress! Coming to, he is! Run?

  ‘So the fowler killed him,’ Straccan said.

  ‘No! Oh, no! He was so afraid! It’s death for a man to strike his lord!’

  What better reason to kill him? Straccan thought. Then no one would know.

  ‘He… We just ran,’ Alis said.

  The fowler had seized her hand and they fled into the forest, never looking back, with Drogo crashing after them. When legs and wind gave out deep among the ancient trees, Talfryn and his lord’s daughter crawled into a gorse thicket and crouched, tearing air into their whistling lungs while the hammering of their hearts shook their bodies; listening in terror to the blundering sounds of pursuit coming closer.

  But Drogo was no longer chasing them. Now, it seemed, someone or something was after him.

  They knew what it was. Everyone knew the Brenin Lwyd was about, the Grey King who led the Wild Hunt. His hounds and horn were often heard at night; wise folk stuck their heads under the covers and prayed. Any daring to peep would be swept up with the Hunt and carried off, never to be seen again alive. In their extremity of fear Alis and the fowler heard the horn’s weird shivering call and the hounds’ unearthly baying at the heels of their prey. From their covert they saw Drogo stumbling through the trees, dagger in hand, bleeding where brambles had torn him, blowing like a hunted stag.

  Close by their hide he turned to face what followed, slashing at empty air with his dagger. They heard a sound like the flight of an arrow and Drogo screamed, clapping his hands to his face, blood running through his fingers. Nothing visible followed his staggering desperate steps unless it was a chill shadow that passed then, like the shadow of a cloud.

  Their thundering hearts quieted. Not far off Drogo screamed again, and they heard the horn’s triumphant bray; then all was silence. Too frightened to move, not daring even to speak, they huddled there until the sun was fully up when Talfryn took Alis to Ceridwen’s cott.

  ‘She was kind. She cleaned me up, put something on my bruises, took my torn gown and gave me one of hers. She said not to be afraid, for my father was surely dead; no one ever escaped the Brenin Lnyd. She told me to go home and try to forget.’

  And Ceridmn said nothing of this at the Hearing, Straccan thought. She kept Alis’s secret.

  ‘Father was dead, of cours
e,’ Alis said. ‘Talfryn found him. It was a mantrap.’

  Two days had passed before the fowler dared to retrace the path of their flight. Splashes of blackened blood led him to his lord’s body, hanging head down, black, grossly swollen, terrible. Drogo’s legs had been caught and jerked up among the leafy branches by the spring of the mantrap, and the broken end of a branch had pierced through his eye to the brain.

  Talfryn got him down, removed all traces of the trap, found the fallen dagger and put it back in its sheath and carried the dreadful carcass to a distant clearing to await discovery. The crows soon flocked to their feasting.

  Next day when the reeve found the corpse Talfryn had to help carry it back to the hall on a litter. Every step of the way he was afraid it would rise up and denounce him.

  ‘Talfryn didn't kill him,’ Alis declared.

  ‘After he left you with Ceridwen he could have gone back and finished Drogo off.’

  ‘No. Something else was chasing my father,’ Alis said. We heard it; I heard it.’ Despite the early afternoon warmth in Lady Margery’s garden, remembering the horn, the baying of the hounds, she shivered.

  Straccan put his cloak over her shoulders. ‘We’d better go in.’

  The little maids had stopped their singing game and were playing catch with a red cloth ball. The tallest of the three had the ball; she tossed it up and caught it, laughing as she held it out of the others’ reach. They jumped and stretched, the littlest one crying, ‘Meg, give it to me!’

  Passing, Straccan tweaked the ball from Meg’s hand and threw it up. The smallest girl caught it and ran off, laughing, chased by the others. Their voices, clear and bright as birds’, followed Straccan and Alis as they left the garden.

  On the stairs he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell this to the coroner at Devilstone?’

  ‘How could I? He’d blame Talfryn! But then, when he accused Havloc… I thought if I came here and told him about Father he’d let Havloc go.’

  ‘Well, they’re waiting for us. Let’s get it over with,’ said Straccan. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He had felt her flinch. ‘I’ll be with you.’