The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  Webb secured the rope in a solid knot, then came to stand before her.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t. But she had to, she had to. Her feet and legs kicked out. She wasn’t moving them; they were moving themselves as if they tried to kick the rope away to get her some air.

  ‘A lovely dance, Agnes. Lovely.’

  Her sight was going. Black dots sprinkled over her vision. She couldn’t breathe. One pointed toe glanced against the top of the tree trunk. She tried with the other. She could reach. Reach the trunk. With the tips, the very tips of her toes. Enough to give her the tiniest relief on her neck, give her the slightest of breaths.

  Webb swore hard. ‘You’re nothing but trouble.’ He marched over to free the rope and haul it up further. But he’d tied it so tight, he couldn’t get the knot undone. He set about it, swearing again.

  Mad with pain, with terror, with death hovering near, she wanted to laugh and laugh. Her legs, her long, strong legs. Her legs had given her a few more precious moments of life. And had made Peter Webb furious.

  Then a noise came from the woods. Loud enough to be heard over the waterfall. The definite rustle and crack of somebody making their way through the undergrowth.

  She glanced over at Webb, praying he’d been too busy with the rope to hear.

  But hear he had. He was staring at the source of the noise, the darkness from within him stealing across his face.

  A call. ‘Agnes!’

  Praise God, it was Hugo Stanton.

  Again. ‘Agnes!’

  And he was looking for her.

  She tried to choke out a scream to warn him. Couldn’t.

  Webb stepped back into the bushes. Hidden.

  Another call. This one filled with horror. ‘God’s eyes! Agnes!’

  Stanton had seen her.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  ‘Agnes! Hold on!’

  He’d been right, thank God, he’d been right. But he was almost too late.

  Stanton tore through the last of the clawing branches, slashing them from him with the hatchet.

  Agnes. Bound. Choking. Only her straining toes on a fallen tree trunk keeping her alive.

  Down, he had to get her down.

  He ran into the clearing. ‘Hold on!’

  A strangled sound came out through her blue, swollen lips.

  ‘Save your breath!’ He ran for the trunk. He’d make it in one leap, like he did on to horseback—

  A slam to his side had him crashing to the ground, hatchet flying from his hand.

  Peter Webb stood over him. ‘You’re no fighter, boy.’ A boot drove into his guts, once, twice.

  Stanton tried to roll out of reach. No. No air, no strength.

  A third.

  No.

  ‘Let me see to the Smith whore first,’ said Webb. ‘She’s already a pretty sight, but her last moments will be the best. You can watch from down there.’

  Another kick.

  ‘Then it’s your turn.’ Webb turned and walked back to the trunk. ‘First you, Agnes.’

  Stanton dragged air into his searing chest. Get up, get up, get up. You have to do this. He forced himself to his feet, feet that staggered under him.

  Agnes kicked out against a dead branch on the trunk, snapping it off to leave a long, sharp point.

  He met her gaze. He had one last chance.

  Webb had seen it too. ‘Is that your plan, girl? You and him? Him?’ He glanced back at Stanton, then looked to Agnes again. ‘My death with a sharpened stick.’ He spat hard and snapped the branch off in his big hands. ‘And now.’ He went to grab her ankles, pull her feet off the trunk.

  And then Stanton was running at Webb’s back, running, his hand pulling out what he had in his satchel.

  Gripping it hard, then plunging, plunging it deep into Webb’s back, just like wood – no, harder, different – but it was in, in, and there was so much blood, but he yanked it out, and he was up on the trunk and the rope, blood on the rope, but it was cut and she was down.

  And he had her. Had Agnes safe in his hold as she pulled in breath after hacking breath, unable to form words as Peter Webb lay dead beside them.

  And her eyes went to what he held in his hand and back to his, and he nodded: Yes.

  A blade. A good blade. With its special stamp in the middle. Forged by a skilled craftsman’s hands.

  Stanton tipped his head back.

  Above him trees, the sky.

  Life.

  The bed of heaven to you, Geoffrey Smith.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  One week later

  ‘It is by the law of his Grace, King Henry, that this court assembles today.’

  Aelred Barling addressed the packed crowd of villagers in front of him that had assembled in Edgar’s hall. ‘I arrived here sixteen days ago to investigate the murder of Geoffrey Smith, sent by the King’s itinerant justices. The justices charged me with this great and proper responsibility because the late Sir Reginald Edgar, of this estate, had not provided the court with a detailed and supported accusation of the outlaw Nicholas Lindley. In short, Edgar had not established guilt.’ His gaze roved over the room, resting for a moment on those who had been caught up in this dreadful onslaught of evil.

  He nodded to where Stanton stood by the door, shoulders straight, cloak neat, hair combed. For once.

  Barling went on. ‘We now know that it was not Nicholas Lindley who murdered Geoffrey Smith but Peter Webb, freeman and weaver of Claresham. Webb also tried to take the life of Agnes Smith, Geoffrey’s daughter.’ He gave a nod of sombre acknowledgement to where Agnes sat to one side.

  ‘He did, sir.’ A hoarseness from the assault to her neck by Peter Webb still clogged her voice. Yet she sat straight, her long hair uncovered, not loose this time but scraped up into a neat bun.

  Barling knew why she had arranged it so.

  It left the skin on her neck exposed, the deep welt from the rope Webb had tried to hang her with still an angry red on her smooth, white flesh. It told as much of her story as words could.

  ‘Webb even tried to kill my assistant, Hugo Stanton,’ said Barling. ‘Fortunately, Stanton was able to kill Webb first.’ He folded his hands and looked around the room again. ‘Mark my words, if Webb were still alive, he would be going to the gallows, and I would be sending him there without hesitation. I would be doing so according to the law of his Grace, according to the King’s justice. But Webb is dead.’ He observed more than a few nods, heard a number of whispers praising God. ‘We have been fortunate in that God has spared Agnes Smith, whom Webb would otherwise have murdered. She owes her life not only to the quick thinking of Stanton, but also to his courageous actions. She is also a witness before God of what Webb did, as he told her in anticipation of trying to hang her. I will now give a summary.’ Barling read steadily from his notes, keeping each account as brief as possible.

  He was aware of shocked faces, hands to mouths and cheeks, murmured oaths and prayers.

  ‘In summary, then,’ concluded Barling, ‘Webb took the life of thatcher Bartholomew Theaker, Geoffrey Smith, stonecutter Thomas Dene and your lord, Sir Reginald Edgar. He took the life of Nicholas Lindley, a man who was in fact no outlaw but a friendless beggar, to whom he showed no mercy.’ He allowed a few moments of quiet for all to remember the many lives taken, with hands raised to make the sign of the cross.

  ‘Yes, Webb is dead,’ continued Barling. ‘Many would say that is justice enough. However, justice also requires that we get at the truth. In order to understand that truth, we must have all the relevant facts, of which I now have a full record. But today I want to share an important part of that truth with you. I will address why Webb killed each of his victims, the reason he did so being of fundamental importance.’

  He looked down at his notes. Line by line by line. ‘And there is another witness, another whom Webb sought to slay.’

  Muted murmurs of conjecture and craned necks met his words.

  He met Stanton’s eye. ‘All is rea
dy?’

  ‘It is.’ Stanton turned and opened the door.

  Gasps and prayers broke out.

  Hilda Folkes entered, an unsteady Margaret Webb leaning against her, Margaret’s head still heavily bandaged.

  Stanton stepped to take her weight on the other side, and he and Hilda helped Margaret into a high-backed chair to the right of Barling.

  She was clearly very weak, her arms and hands resting on the carved chair handles for support. Stanton and Hilda remained next to her as agreed.

  ‘We offer thanks to God for your presence here, Mistress Webb,’ said Barling.

  His words were echoed through the whole room, though the open-mouthed stares told Barling that everyone believed she had perished.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her voice was not strong, a little slurred. But her words were clear.

  The murmurs of astonishment came louder.

  He addressed the court once more. ‘Now, I mentioned having a record of all the facts. In order to achieve that, we need to understand who the murderous Peter Webb, a man who appeared to all the world to be a law-abiding freeman and hard-working weaver, really was.’ He looked again to Margaret. ‘Mistress Webb, I know that you are still grievously wounded, so I will try to be concise. Now, is it true that your husband was a skilled, prolific poacher for many years?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was. I . . . I knew about the poaching.’

  A ripple of surprise went through the room.

  ‘May I ask, as I am sure many here are wondering, why you, a woman known for her high morals, went along with such dishonest behaviour?’

  ‘Sir, Peter always told me that we lived one step away from destitution.’

  Now the surprised whispers became ones of derisory disbelief.

  ‘Charged enough for his cloth, he did,’ came an audible mutter from Caldbeck.

  Barling’s gaze swept the room again. ‘I would remind all present to listen and to listen without comment. Rushing to judgement has played a major part in getting us to this sorry day.’ He could tell from the sceptical expressions that thoughts remained the same. Well, they would soon change. ‘So, Mistress Webb, your husband claimed that your household was at risk of penury at all times.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He said he poached to help our income. That he had to.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because we’d no one to help us, keep us as we got older or if we got sick.’ Her voice tightened. ‘Because I’d never been able to produce any healthy children, sir.’

  ‘But you had produced one healthy child.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that child’s name?’

  ‘John, sir. My son, John.’

  Barling looked out at the court. At perplexed expressions. ‘Then tell us, Mistress Webb, about John.’

  Even in a life that was hell there could be heaven.

  Sat on a low stool before the fire, Margaret Webb looked down at the little head against her full breast, her tiny boy drinking his fill for the fourth time that day. She put her work-roughened hand over his little smooth one, marvelling that anything could feel so soft. So perfect. She kissed the top of his downy skull, the life pulsing fast and strong in the small dip in the top.

  With John steady in one hand, she stretched out with the other to poke the fire, over which the pot of pottage steamed, wincing as she did so.

  Peter had kicked her so hard in the ribs yesterday that she thought he’d broken them. Again. But she could breathe without pain, at least most of the time, so she was probably bruised and nothing worse.

  It had been her own fault. She’d been slow to rise at cockcrow; John had had her up three times in the night.

  Peter was tired too, from all his disturbed sleep, so if he used his boot to rouse her, then so be it.

  And right at this moment he wasn’t here. He was out trapping hares, an act that gave him pleasure, as much from taking something out from under Sir Reginald’s nose as from strangling the creatures with sharp wire.

  Peter wasn’t here and she was alone with her precious boy. Bliss. The one, the only baby she’d ever carried without loss, without Peter’s punches and kicks pounding the child from within her. She put those thoughts away.

  Bliss.

  John paused in his eager suckling. She lifted him from her breast, held him to her shoulder, where he belched like a proud old man.

  ‘Listen to you.’ She slipped him from her shoulder, held him up before her, his dark pools of eyes gazing into hers as he gave a sleepy smile. A hiccup. As she kissed his tiny round nose, she froze.

  The latch.

  She gathered John in one arm, got to her feet, grabbing for the bowl.

  Too late.

  Peter was in, a full sack in one hand.

  ‘Good evening, Peter.’

  His scowl said everything. ‘Where’s my supper?’ He threw his sack on the ground.

  ‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘I’m just putting it in the bowl right now. I didn’t want it to get cold—’

  He was on her in two steps, his fingers digging into her face on either side of her mouth, forcing her to look at him. ‘It’s not ready for me, is it?’

  Her baby in one arm, bowl in the hand of the other, the fire at her feet, her sore ribs. She didn’t dare move. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You always are.’ He didn’t even raise his voice. He never did.

  But his fist met the underside of her jaw – so hard, so fast – and her arms flew out with the blow, the pain, the bowl going one way, shattering, the baby – her baby, John – going the other as she landed on her back.

  Peter stood over her. ‘Now you’ve broken a bowl.’ His boot again.

  She didn’t care, didn’t care. All she cared was that she couldn’t see John, couldn’t hear him.

  ‘You clumsy whore.’ Peter took up another bowl, sat before the fire and started to help himself to the pottage.

  Don’t sob, no noise. Peter doesn’t like it. Margaret got to her hands and knees, crawled across to the little bundle that was John. Still, so still. No cry. He lay on the floor next to the sack, the head and glassy eyes of a dead hare lolling from it.

  Please, God, oh please, sweet Jesus, oh please, please, please. Her hand reached him, touched him, then she could see his little face.

  And he blinked. Then hiccupped.

  Oh, praise God, praise His holy name. She sat up on one hip, picked John up, holding in her agony. Held him to her.

  He hiccupped again. Vomited all over her, once, twice. His eyes rolled.

  She didn’t scream, she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. All she could do was stare as the soft dip on the top of his head swelled red and angry and wrong.

  From behind her, Peter: ‘I said you were a clumsy whore.’

  It would be wrong to say that a silence followed as Margaret paused to gather her strength.

  It was a quiet broken by weeping, by many stifled sobs. More than a few deep-voiced oaths.

  Margaret herself remained dry-eyed, though the knuckles of her fists gripping her chair had turned pure white as she began to speak again. ‘John had that swelling on his head for days and days. And from that day on, he was never the same. His tongue. His right eye.’ Her voice caught. ‘He . . . he stopped turning his head to me when I talked to him.’

  ‘And how old was John when Peter did this?’ Barling allowed no emotion in his words, his face. He could not. His calling was to bring out the truth.

  ‘Six weeks, sir.’

  ‘Did Peter ever express any remorse for what he did to John?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And did you ever bear any other children?’

  ‘No, sir. Though it wasn’t for want of Peter . . . trying.’

  Angry hisses filled the room now, a louder rumble of curses.

  Barling waited for the reactions to settle as he consulted one of the pipe rolls before him, then addressed her once more. ‘Mistress Webb, the King’s court protects the life and limb of married women against the savager
y of husbands, against such men who would maim or kill them. Moreover, if a woman is in fear of violence exceeding a reasonable chastisement, then such a husband could be bound with sureties to keep the peace. Did you approach your lord, Sir Reginald Edgar, about your rights under the law?’

  ‘Sir, I did consider it, but only consider it. Peter had always been sure not to damage my hands or my face very often, that his worst work would be hidden under my clothes or my coif.’ The shadows below her eyes had deepened in her exhaustion. She paused for a long breath and pressed on. ‘I hid everything from the world, the same as I did my distress over John. But like with everything, Peter could tell what I was thinking. So he warned me. He told me, with his hand to my throat, that if I ever, ever said a word to anybody about what had happened, he wouldn’t kill me. But he would kill John. I was terrified for my son, sir. So I kept my silence. Did everything Peter said. I kept John safe.’

  ‘Mistress Webb, I can see you are growing very weary,’ said Barling. ‘I shall not press you for too much longer. But I need to ask you this: did you know that Peter had murdered Geoffrey Smith?’

  ‘No, sir. Nor anybody else.’ She clutched the arms of her chair. ‘I swear to you on my son’s life.’

  Under normal circumstances, Barling would correct her, remind her that her oath was to God. But he did not need to, nor even want to. The life of her son was everything to her.

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ he said. ‘I commend your honesty and your great strength in coming here.’ Barling looked at the assembled court. ‘We now see Peter Webb for who he really was: a savage brute within his own home.’ He let that sink in before he addressed Margaret again. ‘I would next ask that you take up from the hours when your husband was out, as we now know, murdering Sir Reginald and abducting Agnes Smith.’

  ‘I swear to you that I did not know,’ said Margaret. ‘I assumed he was off poaching.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Barling. ‘Now, if you can give us your account.’

  Margaret’s hands worked her spinning in her lap as she sat before the fire, sending the bobbin up, down, as the loose wool became a strong thread. Always a little bit of magic this, she often thought, one object changing its form to become another.