by E. M. Powell
As so often with the brilliance of his Grace, the new system was breathtaking, not only in its ambition but also in its effectiveness. Not two days ago the ordeal had been a demonstration of the might of the King’s power. No man or woman on this earth could have looked upon it and not quailed.
But as for becoming a justice, it held no attraction for Barling. He relished his reputation as a compiler and adviser, one who could devote his time and talents to detail. Just as he had at the ordeal on Saturday, when he’d checked the discarded clothing of the accused and found the hidden brooch. Yet he’d been perfectly content to leave the verdicts to the justices. He was not worthy of taking on the weight of final judgement.
The morning proceeded in a regular, steady order of case after case.
Barling completed his writing and laid his pen down once more. After applying a neat wax seal to each one, he collected the letters that needed to be dispatched and slipped out quietly as yet another jury gave their evidence to the court. There were several clerks who could deal with anything the judges might require, and he would not be long. His next task was to hand over these letters to the messengers to make sure of their timely delivery.
As the doors closed behind him, the building heat of the morning met him. He descended the steps of the motte, squinting in the harsh sunlight. The messengers were assembled in the busy, spacious yard below, as they should be, awaiting his orders. Their horses were saddled and tethered nearby, the animals smartly groomed, as he insisted upon.
A respectful chorus came from the men. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morrow.’ Barling ran his eye over each man and rapped out orders as he handed out his letters. ‘Richmond: by sundown. Nothing later. Rievaulx Abbey: await a response from the abbot. Lancaster: fix your hat on straight, man.’ And so on until he reached the end. The end where he had no letters left. But no messengers, either.
‘Who is missing?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Cobb is still laid up with the flux, sir,’ replied one.
‘I know that,’ said Barling. ‘I sent a query to his inn yesterday.’ He took another look at the familiar faces before him and gave a sharp, short sigh. ‘It is Hugo Stanton, is it not?’
‘Looks like it, sir.’
‘Look at the hour,’ said Barling. ‘Do any of you know where he might be?’
The shaking of heads met his question.
‘No, sir. No idea.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Perhaps he’s ill as well, sir.’ This came from the one called Nesbitt.
Barling gave a short, sharp sigh. ‘Well, I am not going to delay you any longer. You may go. Godspeed.’
As the messengers went to their animals, Barling caught a grin and a mutter from Nesbitt to another. ‘I’ll wager you that Stanton’s still with that whore he left with on Saturday.’
‘Nesbitt.’ Barling’s crisp order had the man pause and look around.
‘Yes, sir?’ His face fell at being overheard.
‘I expect a truthful answer when I ask a question. And if you know where Stanton is, then make sure you send him to me. At once. Whore or no whore. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ No longer grinning, Nesbitt continued on to his animal.
Barling stood and watched as the messengers all rode out. If anything of importance arose in the court, he would be called for. In the meantime, he would wait for Stanton and make sure the man suffered repercussions for his distasteful tardiness.
Enough was enough. It was not simply a problem of lateness with Stanton. It was so much else.
For a start, the young man had only joined the travelling court a month ago. De Glanville had informed Barling with a terse explanation that Stanton had been a good messenger in the rebellion and so was now joining the ranks of the court messengers. Nothing more. Barling had been perfectly satisfied with that, though it was an unusual occurrence. Nevertheless, it should have sufficed.
Then young Stanton had arrived.
Oh, Stanton was a fast rider, no doubt about that. The fastest of all, should he choose to rouse himself. But he had a careless appearance that was never up to the standards of the court. A fondness for alehouses and, even worse, bawdy houses. An air about him that suggested he thought he was better than most men, though that suggestion had no evidence whatsoever to support it. That he could live his life as he pleased. Worst of all, a demeanour that showed no respect for authority.
The same demeanour that had Stanton, on this bright morn, sleeping in the arms of a whore when he should have been serving his King.
Barling folded his arms, uncaring of the eye of the sun on his tonsured head.
When Stanton arrived, he would have a suitable greeting ready for him.
It was time Hugo Stanton learned his true place in the world.
And Aelred Barling would be the one to teach him.
Chapter Five
Stanton ran, one hand to his aching ribs to hold them steady.
The bells of Terce sounded from churches and monasteries as he hurried along the uneven cobbles, cursing at every jar to his bones.
He swore quietly to himself. He was late. So late. The amount of ale he’d drunk on the day of the ordeal would have made him sleepy enough. The thumping he’d had from that robber made his head even thicker.
Yet he was lucky to still have a skull that was in one piece. Another whore had led a man into the alley, screamed at what she saw and ran off along with her customer. But God had smiled on him, he reckoned. His attackers fled as well, leaving him to stagger back to his small airless room at an inn. He’d not said anything. A fool. The robber’s word for him. Yes, he was. And it was nothing new.
Yesterday, the Lord’s Day, he’d spent mostly in restless, uncomfortable dreams. Now Monday had dawned, he should be in his place at the back of the court, awaiting orders, not dodging past slow-walking traders laden with full baskets and swaying, rumbling carts that took up half the street.
He spied Nesbitt riding towards him at a brisk trot, his fellow messenger’s lively horse clearing a ready path. Nesbitt saw him too, raising a hand in greeting before pulling to a halt beside him.
‘Barling’s looking for you. And he’s not happy.’
Stanton swore again.
Nesbitt grinned. ‘Not seen you since the ordeal.’ He pointed at Stanton’s eye. ‘Out scrapping, were you?’
‘Yes. No. I’d best be off.’
‘And me.’ Nesbitt clicked to his horse. ‘Good luck with Barling. You’re going to need it.’
‘Barling? Luck won’t help me with that pain in the backside. Godspeed, Nesbitt.’
Stanton set off again, faster this time. Forget his ribs.
The small, slight Aelred Barling might only be about a dozen years older than Stanton, but the clerk’s nature, duller and drier than the piles of manuscripts he surrounded himself with, made him seem even more. While the man was meek and mild to all the justices, he was the opposite to those under his charge if they made a mistake. And that included late messengers.
Stanton made it to the busy castle bailey faster than he had any morning before. It didn’t matter.
He could see Barling waiting for him by the steps that led up to the motte, dressed in his usual black robes, arms folded, for all the world like an angry bat.
Stanton hurried up to him, trying to bring his breathing under control.
‘Now here is Hugo Stanton.’ Barling didn’t raise his voice. He never did. ‘The saints are smiling.’ His smooth, pale face wasn’t.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Very sorry I’m late.’
‘Yes, you are late, Stanton. Your apology does not cause the church bells to unring, nor the sun to unrise.’
‘You’re right, sir.’
‘Of course I am right. As you are in the wrong.’ Barling’s slender nostrils pinched in his annoyance. ‘Not only are you late, your appearance is a disgrace. Aside from your clothing looking like you plucked it from a washerwoman’s basket,
the injury to your eye would suggest that you have been brawling.’
‘I had too much ale, sir. I fell over. That’s all.’ He hated his own lie. But the shame of being duped and robbed by the gang was worse than lying.
‘That is all?’ Barling drew out the all, eyebrows raised almost to his thin, dun hair.
‘Yes, sir. I mean, no . . .’
‘Stanton, I care not one whit about what you mean. What I care about is the efficient running of King Henry’s court. The court that has been sitting while you lay abed on top of a whore in your ale-filled slumber. I have dispatched all the messengers already this morning. Had I others at my disposal, I would send you away until you are fit to be seen. However, I have no choice. I cannot risk disruption to the court because I have no messengers to hand.’ Barling’s thin lips pursed. ‘Mark this: you are in the worst of trouble. I will deal with your unacceptable behaviour personally later. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get yourself up to the court,’ said Barling. ‘And ensure that you are placed where the justices cannot see you in your disgracefully dishevelled state.’ He went to lead the climb up the steps.
‘You two. Stop there.’
Stanton turned along with Barling to see who’d uttered the slurred command.
A richly dressed nobleman sat on a fine horse, his bulk swaying in his saddle. He was clearly very drunk, far more so than Stanton had been at the ordeal, and, Stanton guessed, used to being so. The man’s deep red, meaty face told of many years of winebibbing.
‘I have come,’ the nobleman went on, ‘for the law. Bring me there. At once.’
‘Do you seek the King’s justices, my lord?’ Barling made his tone polite for this wealthy stranger.
‘That’s what I said, man. Are you deaf as well as disobedient?’
Barling’s nostrils drew in again.
Stanton kept silent, not wanting to draw any ire.
‘You address one of the senior clerks to the justices, my lord,’ said Barling. ‘I will need to know your name as well as your appeal.’
‘I can tell the justices that. Not you.’ The word ended on a stifled belch.
Stanton braced himself for a public scene. Barling was as irritated as the nobleman was drunk.
‘I respectfully request your name, my lord,’ came Barling’s clipped reply. ‘Without it, I cannot allow your entry to the court of the King.’
‘If you must.’ The man’s glower matched his tone. ‘My name is Sir Reginald Edgar. And I wish to appeal a brutal murder.’
Chapter Six
Stanton followed Barling and the stranger called Sir Reginald Edgar into the crowded castle keep, where the court was sitting.
As always, the warm, stuffy air smelled and felt musty: no breeze found its way in here. Neither did the light from the bright morning sun. Instead, scores of candles threw out yellowed light as well as heat and smoke. The many clerks had their tonsured heads bent to their scribbling, while the three dark-robed justices sat in their usual position on the raised dais.
A jury of twelve men was assembled before them, brought in to make some sort of declaration or other.
De Glanville was addressing them and another two men, who stood to one side.
‘Sir Reginald,’ whispered Barling, ‘please remain here in silence until the justices have concluded this case. I will then inform them of your appeal.’
Edgar grunted but did as asked.
Barling’s look went to Stanton. ‘As for you,’ he hissed, ‘try and stay out of sight lest you attract displeasure.’ He gave him a last warning nod, then made his way to his seat at the side of the dais, the very nearest to the judges, steps silent on the rush-covered stone floor.
Stanton let out a long breath, wincing as his ribs protested. He reckoned he’d attracted enough displeasure from Barling to last him a good while. He doubted de Glanville would care if he was missing an arm, let alone bother about a black eye. But if Henry’s judge even glanced at him, let alone remarked on him, Barling would have Stanton pay for it for the rest of his days. He tried to melt into the stone wall at his back as de Glanville carried on with his judgement.
An inheritance case, guessed Stanton. Even he recognised many of the words by now. Plaintiff. Dispossession. Disseisin. What they meant, he still had little idea. Even less about what kind of men these justices were. To hang two men on a Saturday and drown another. Then to sit here again from the early morning on a Monday, calm, emotionless. Rested-looking. Despite the many hours he’d spent in bed, Stanton’s own sleep had been fitful, broken, filled with throttled faces and dirty water and the thud of axe blade on limbs.
‘Let it be therefore judged that the tenant is the party with the greater rights on the land sought.’
De Glanville’s conclusion seemed to make one of the men happy. He bowed many times, a huge smile on his face, while Barling gestured at him to stop.
De Glanville didn’t even seem to notice. His attention, along with that of the other justices, was back on one of the manuscripts in front of him, the justice looking at what Stanton assumed should be the next case.
As winner, loser and jury mingled and filed out in a buzz of quiet chatter, Barling got up and slipped to de Glanville’s side, head bent to the justice’s ear the better to murmur into it.
De Glanville looked up with a frown, seeking out Edgar with the help of Barling’s discreet point. He said a few brief words to Barling, who retook his own seat.
‘Sir Reginald Edgar.’ De Glanville’s call had the lord step forward with a grumpy ‘Finally!’ that the whole court must have heard in the newly settled quiet.
Stanton bit the inside of his own lip to hold in his grin at the look on Barling’s face.
All three justices exchanged glances as Edgar shuffled forward with careful steps.
‘My lords.’ Though Edgar had stopped, he stood with the steadiness of a man aboard a ship at sea. ‘I thank you for your generosity in hearing my case this morning. Your wisdom is excelled only by your efficiency. My lords.’ He gestured at the startled-looking clerks. ‘And you. All of you.’
‘Sir Reginald,’ said de Glanville, ‘the King’s court acknowledges your generous praise and thanks you in return. However, my fellow justices and I would be greatly assisted by your laying out what your appeal is in the briefest, simplest of terms.’
‘Well then, my lord.’ Edgar raised a finger, which seemed to unsteady him even more. ‘I cannot put it more briefly. Or simply. An outlaw has murdered my village’s smith.’
‘Does your smith have a name?’ asked de Glanville.
‘He did when he was alive, my lord.’ Edgar’s words landed on the right side of insolent. Barely.
‘And that was?’ De Glanville’s question had an edge that warned, same as the day of the ordeal.
If Edgar noticed, Stanton couldn’t see it.
‘Geoffrey Smith,’ said Edgar. ‘A well-respected member of the community. Murdered by Nicholas Lindley, an outlaw who most definitely is not.’
‘How did he murder him?’
‘Lindley broke into Smith’s forge. Late one night. Ten days ago.’ Edgar swallowed hard and lost much of his high colour. ‘He . . . he took Smith’s own branding iron. He beat Geoffrey to death with it. Broke his skull clean open. Smashed the iron into Smith’s face too.’
A ripple of stifled disgust went through the room, matched by Stanton’s own stomach turning over. His beloved uncle had worked the anvil, had had a forge.
Barling bent to his tablet to make a note.
‘I see,’ said de Glanville. ‘You have brought your witnesses?’
‘Witnesses?’ Edgar shook his head. ‘Only one witness. It was Smith’s daughter, Agnes. But the woman’s still back in Claresham.’
‘Always problematic when a woman’s accusation is involved.’ De Vaux, the second, smaller judge, gave a sage nod.
‘Indeed,’ came from Pikenot, the third, round-bodied judge, who hardly ever spoke.
/> ‘Yet this Lindley did not harm her?’ asked de Glanville.
‘No, my lords,’ said Edgar. ‘Agnes Smith wasn’t there when it happened. But she found her father’s body.’ His thick lips pursed down. ‘A horrible business. Horrible.’
A shudder passed through Stanton. Not just a terrible end for Smith, but a terrible discovery for his daughter too.
De Glanville frowned. ‘Then who did witness it?’
‘No one exactly, my lords.’ Edgar’s ruddy face glowed in the flickering light once more. ‘But it’s clear as day who did it. This Lindley fellow was living in the woods for about a week before he murdered Smith. A beggar, or so we thought.’ He swayed a bit harder. ‘A couple of folk had seen him on the side roads as well. Some food had gone missing from stores. Lindley had been living amongst us as a rat lives unseen in the walls. Until . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head.
‘Terrible events, Sir Reginald, I have no doubt of that,’ said de Glanville. ‘But it would be of great help to the proceedings of this court if you were to ask your jury of presentment to come in so we can hear their full accusation.’
‘A jury?’ Edgar blinked hard. ‘I have no such resources to call on at the moment. Many, many souls on my estate have perished this last terrible winter past. Many.’
De Glanville gave a sympathetic nod. ‘As they have over the whole land.’
‘If God is good, we will not see its like again,’ said the second judge.
A murmur of agreement met his words, Stanton joining it. Impossible to imagine now, in the warmth of June, the ice and snow that had buried houses and barns as high as the roofs for many months, making every road near impassable. Yet one thing had been able to move: a fever and a liquid cough that claimed lives with ease.
‘Amen, my lords,’ said Edgar. ‘But my fields need working with the greatest of urgency by the men I do have left. Bringing them here would have been a waste of time. A jury is not needed in this case.’