The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  Not that she ever said. Peter did not approve of magic.

  Her bobbin was almost empty, and she reached down to her basket to feed in another handful. Empty. She clicked to herself in impatience. She needed to get more done tonight and be ready to start at first light. Peter would have something to say if she didn’t.

  She got up, went outside and crossed the yard to the fulling shed, candle in hand, owls calling in the night air.

  Margaret opened the door to the shed, her patient, hard-working boy labouring away, left foot, right foot in the stinking fulling pit as always. His anxious face looked over as the door opened, relaxed into his heart-rending beam as he saw it was her and not Peter. He stepped from the pit and threw his arms around her in their special greeting, which was secret from Peter.

  She returned John’s hug, then crossed over to the baskets where the raw, sheared wool was stored.

  Her stomach lurched. Hardly any in there. It would be the same as her not filling her basket for spinning. Peter’s work was up and down at the minute, with all the terrible events that had been happening too. But he wouldn’t think that. He’d use his fist on her; her fault that work had stalled.

  John was beside her now, looking to where she looked; his way of helping, bless him.

  She checked every basket again. Still not enough. Now she felt sick.

  Straightening up, she scanned the shed. Barrels. More barrels. One basket shoved in at the back of one, not in the usual place.

  God be praised. Peter hadn’t forgotten to refill, only misplaced one.

  She hurried over to it, John with her. Pulling it from behind the barrel, she peered in. Her stomach lurched again. It was full of filthy scraps and ends of wool. But maybe, just maybe she could find usable bits in here. She dug a hand to search through.

  John stood next to her, idly chewing his tongue, no doubt enjoying his break from treading.

  To her surprise, her fingers found leather. Good leather. She pulled out whatever the thing was.

  A boot. A good boot.

  She dug in the basket again.

  Another one. What on earth?

  Well, whatever they were, they were no concern of hers. Or John’s. If Peter knew they’d been at them, they’d both receive a beating.

  But something wasn’t right: you couldn’t really poach boots.

  John sighed loud and long, and she made her decision.

  Never mind. Boots weren’t worth getting a beating for. She thrust them back into their hiding place.

  ‘So I left the boots,’ said Margaret to an utterly silent court. ‘Got as many scraps of wool as I could, kissed goodnight to my John. I did a bit more spinning and went to bed. When it was first light, I woke as always, and Peter was asleep beside me. I did all my jobs as usual. I was out sweeping the yard when the news about Sir Reginald came out.’

  ‘Such terrible news this morning, Mistress Webb.’ A couple of Edgar’s servants, pausing at the gate. ‘Have you heard?’

  Margaret listened in revulsion at their breathless account of their lord’s murder.

  Her hand went to her mouth. ‘When will it all end? When will Lindley be caught?’

  The taller of the servants shook his head. ‘Not while that King’s clerk, that Barling, is in charge.’

  ‘More of his daft questions from him just now,’ said the other. ‘Wanted to know about Sir Reginald, God rest him, giving Lindley a pair of boots or some such nonsense.’

  Her mouth dried. ‘Boots. Are you sure?’

  ‘Course. Asked us hisself.’ He spat in contempt. ‘Silly bugger.’

  His friend tugged at his sleeve. ‘We’d best be off. A sad day, Mistress Webb.’

  ‘A sad day indeed.’ She watched as they set off, both hands locked on her broom, unable to move.

  Boots. Hidden in her shed. That she knew nothing about. That the King’s man enquired about, enquired about as he asked questions about the murdered Sir Reginald.

  She had to get those boots to Barling. And she had to be quick, before Peter woke.

  Heart pounding, Margaret hurried over to the fulling shed, left her broom outside against the wall and went inside.

  John had already started his treading for the day and returned her quick hug.

  She went past him to the basket behind the barrels, her hands trembling as she plunged them into the wool. Praise God, the boots were still in there. She shoved them under her apron; she could be back in no time at all.

  Then a voice from behind her.

  ‘Margaret, what are you doing?’

  ‘It was Peter, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘He ordered me to put the boots back and come with him to the cottage. He told me that if I didn’t, he would drown John in the fulling pit. I went with him. What else could I do? I walked in. He was still behind me. And that’s all I remember.’

  ‘It could well have been your last thought, Mistress Webb.’ Barling gave a sober nod. ‘That was certainly your husband’s intent, striking you on the head with savagery and leaving you, as he believed, dead on the floor.’ He addressed the court once more. ‘Webb then calmly left his home and brazenly joined the search for Lindley. What was the next thing you remember?’

  ‘Lying in the room at Sir Reginald’s hall. I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but I saw John and my heart soared, for he was safe with me, at least for the time being. But it was the briefest of wakings. Then I heard Hugo Stanton enter.’ She paused to give a grateful glance at Stanton. ‘I managed to open my eyes, tried to tell him about the boots, about Peter. But I couldn’t speak. I had the words in my mind but I could not get them out.’

  ‘A blow to the head often does such a thing, sometimes until the end of a person’s days. Thank God you were spared that torment. But in torment you were, lying there with the vital information you had. And only one person could help you, is that not correct?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘And who was that person?’

  ‘My son, John.’

  Barling saw the looks of disbelief on the faces before him. ‘Perhaps you could tell us how he did so.’

  ‘That I can. You see, the whole world has always seen my John as a witless fool.’

  ‘But you found out differently.’

  ‘By chance, one could say, when he was four years old,’ said Margaret. ‘But I always say God’s hand guided me.’

  The package of cloth was heavy on Margaret’s shoulder. The walk to the monastery had taken longer than she thought, but she had to hurry. Peter was alone with John, and that always made her sick with fear.

  If her little boy went near the fire, unable to see properly with his poor, turned right eye, Peter might not notice. Or care. Or would get John away from it with his usual slap or punch instead of a tap on the shoulder. The same would happen to John if Peter grew tired of his noises, his honks that to her could be a baby goose, his strange cackle, his half hiss, half spit with his tongue wagging out.

  Yet they weren’t merely noises. Margaret knew in her heart that John wanted to tell her things. She’d thought for a long while that Peter’s assault had made her son a fool who knew nothing. Until John started to point at the pail of milk. And made a sound to her. Pointed at a cat. And made another sound to her. She’d tried so hard, so hard. Always when Peter was out poaching.

  ‘Milk, John. Fire, John.’

  Nothing. Just wet kisses on her cheeks, arms around her neck with his little heh-heh laugh.

  No laugh for Peter. Ever. Only cowering and wet britches.

  She quickened her pace.

  The fat, cheery monk at the gate let her in, pointed to where she had to deliver the cloth.

  The scent of the most delicious roasted meat wafted from open shutters as she walked past. The monks’ midday meal, no doubt. Her stomach growled as she glanced in. Such full tables. And—

  She stopped dead. Stared. Couldn’t help herself.

  For the room full of eating monks was alive with silent movement. Hands fluttered fast,
fingers would make a shape for a second and then would make another and another.

  A monk caught her eye and she hurried away, dropping her cloth.

  On her way out, she saw the red-cheeked monk was still there. Though this delayed her further, she had to know.

  ‘Good brother,’ she said, ‘if you’ll pardon my rudeness, I saw some of the other monks a little while ago, in the refectory, behaving in a . . . strange way.’

  The monk chuckled. ‘Not strange at all, mistress. We follow the Rule of Saint Benedict, which insists on silence during our daily activities outside the Divine Office. Silence is indeed a virtue, but it is most impractical. So we, as so many monks have, devised a way of communicating without words.’

  Margaret looked at him, not daring to hope. ‘Then you do not need your ears?’

  ‘Nor our tongues.’ The monk gave a beaming smile. ‘Yet we can ask for the soap in the bathhouse.’ He moved his fingers. ‘Or the butter at table.’ Again, but differently. ‘You see?’

  ‘I do, brother.’ Her heart soared. She had hope now.

  He chuckled again. ‘And Saint Benedict is still satisfied.’

  ‘Then,’ said Margaret, ‘I went home. Tried out with John what the monk had described. It took a while. A long while. But we did it. We did it. I could understand John, and he me. It was our secret, our precious, precious secret. So, lying in Edgar’s hall, I could not speak, but my fingers were able to tell John to take Stanton to our shed and show him the boots.’

  Barling saw different expressions in the court now as Margaret spoke on.

  ‘My son never had the devil in him. But my husband did. I hope he hears my words today from hell. And knows that my boy, John, my precious boy, helped to send him there.’

  Barling allowed a long silence before he spoke again. Her words demanded nothing less.

  ‘We have reached the conclusion of my record. Almost.’ He held up a hand, careful to keep it completely steady. ‘Agnes, I said at the beginning of this hearing that it would be about truth.’ His mouth dried at what he was about to say. But he had to, no matter how much it cost him. ‘In truth, I made a wrong accusation against you. I did not do so out of any malice, for my only interest is in serving the King and his rule of law. As one of the King’s men, I made a mistake in the course of doing so and offer my apologies for it.’ His voice sounded steady in his own ears, praise God. ‘And now that is the end. I dismiss you all.’

  Barling rose to his feet, spent.

  And then came a call.

  ‘God save the King’s justice!’

  Others joined in, joined in until the hall echoed.

  Barling looked to Stanton, expecting to see pride in the young man’s face.

  But no. Merely a brief, unsmiling nod.

  And he wouldn’t meet Barling’s eye.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Hugo Stanton had finally got his wish.

  Today, on this perfect summer morning, with white, fluffy clouds in a blue sky and birdsong on a fresh, cool breeze that had sprung up overnight, he would leave the King’s service forever.

  He would return to the monastic posts, bringing letters from monastery to monastery. Ride far. Ride fast.

  And nothing else.

  Osmond had agreed to support this decision, delighted with Stanton’s request to serve the church once more.

  ‘An excellent path to follow, my boy,’ the rector had said. ‘Perhaps one that will eventually lead you to take your holy vows, in complete service to the Almighty.’ As Osmond was no longer only the rector but about to become the lord of Claresham on the death of his uncle, his word would carry great weight.

  Barling had known that too when Stanton presented him yesterday evening with Osmond’s letter, laying out his case for leaving. It hadn’t taken long. Barling had tried to change his mind, trying to persuade him that he should continue in the service of the law. To his credit, the clerk kept good on his word not to pry into why Stanton did not wish to serve the King directly.

  ‘You have a sharp eye, Stanton.’

  ‘Not sharp enough, Barling.’

  ‘You have great courage, Stanton.’

  ‘Fear more than courage, Barling.’

  ‘You speak up for the truth, Stanton.’

  He had no argument against that, so he’d said nothing.

  ‘Very well.’ Barling had reached for his own parchment. ‘I will write to the justices and advise that you will be serving the church instead in a noble and worthwhile undertaking. The hour is late, but I will have it ready for you by the morning.’

  Now the morning was here.

  Barling’s letter – a thin, neat roll closed with its red wax seal – had been brought to him by a servant.

  Stanton had placed it in his satchel with Osmond’s, then picked up his bundle. Went to the stables, mounted the fine horse given to him by Osmond.

  And ridden out of the courtyard without a backward glance.

  The road lay before him. But he had one stop he wanted to make.

  He pulled up outside the rectory, secured his horse and entered the graveyard next to the church.

  Nothing more than the song of the birds and the breeze in the trees and bushes broke the silence as Stanton walked through slowly, stopping at every fresh mound to say a silent prayer.

  Geoffrey Smith.

  Bartholomew Theaker.

  Thomas Dene.

  Stanton shook his head. He’d made the right choice to go. He could easily be lying under a mound of brown, drying soil as well.

  And last, Nicholas Lindley. Tucked away in a quiet corner. Utterly alone.

  Stanton drew his hand across his face when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Without your intervention, there would be two more graves, you know.’

  Barling.

  Stanton turned as the clerk walked up, clad in his neat black robes as ever.

  ‘With better intervention there’d be none.’ Stanton looked over to where Peter Webb’s mound was by a wall, at the farthest edge it could possibly be. ‘Well, one would be good.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Barling crossed himself as he stood next to Stanton at Lindley’s grave.

  ‘But four is too many. Five, if you count Edgar.’ He nodded to the church. ‘He’s in there, of course. In his great stone casket.’ His gaze met the clerk’s. ‘Is that why you missed out a line in your account, Barling? Is Edgar too grand to have the whole truth told about him? Is it that you didn’t want the whole of Claresham to hear that Sir Reginald Edgar liked to lie with men?’

  ‘Ah.’ Barling gave the hint of a smile. ‘You noticed.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed, Barling. So when you were there last night, going on at me about the truth, you might as well have been talking to one of these headstones. The truth didn’t matter when it came to protecting Edgar. Line by line by line, Barling. Unless you don’t approve of one of the lines.’

  ‘I did not miss a line to protect Edgar. I missed a line to protect somebody else.’

  ‘You mean me.’ Stanton shook his head. ‘Barling, I couldn’t have cared less if the whole village heard Edgar wanted to lie with me. It was the truth.’

  ‘Not you.’

  Stanton frowned. ‘Then who?’

  ‘I missed a line to protect this man.’ Barling’s gaze went to the mound before them. ‘Nicholas Lindley.’

  ‘Lindley? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you remember what Edgar told us the night Webb ambushed you, about finding Lindley in his stables?’

  ‘Yes.’ I found Lindley hiding in one of my stables. It was the night before the one of Smith’s murder. Chap was in a piteous state. I gave him some work to do. Rewarded him for it with charity. The boots off my own feet. My own feet! Said that was what he wanted. Not money. His feet were ruined from wandering for miles. ‘I thought it was a bit odd that Edgar hadn’t mentioned it before. But Edgar was always fuddled from drink.’

  ‘Edgar may have been a drunk. But he knew perfectly well what
he had done with Nicholas Lindley. The same as he wanted to do with you, Stanton.’

  ‘Oh.’ Edgar’s wet mouth on his. The lord’s tongue strong, pushing past his teeth, hand at his groin before he shoved him off.

  ‘Oh indeed.’ Barling shook his head. ‘You were the King’s man, of a status where you could repel Edgar’s unwanted advance. But Nicholas Lindley was a penniless beggar. Alone and desperate. Found hiding by the lord on his property. He did whatever it was that Edgar wanted him to do. I sincerely doubt it was the first time for Edgar, given his behaviour with you. Edgar justified what he did by making a payment in the form of a pair of his boots, like he said Lindley had asked for. I am sure it salved Edgar’s conscience. If he had one.’

  ‘And Lindley was about to move on from Claresham,’ said Stanton. ‘He told me that.’

  ‘I am sure he was,’ said Barling. ‘I cannot say definitely, but I would imagine that Edgar had told him to once he had finished with him. But before Lindley could leave Claresham . . .’ He held up his hands, dropped them.

  ‘Webb murdered Geoffrey Smith.’ Stanton tipped his head back with a long breath. ‘And Lindley, the beggar, was blamed. Put in gaol, awaiting execution.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barling gave a sober nod. ‘Edgar might have been a drunk. But he was also a ruthless man who would not hesitate to act in a way that was best for him. As far as he was concerned, a murder had taken place. The villagers were convinced that Lindley was guilty. After all, he was an outsider. Not one of them. Edgar was also very possibly terrified that he’d forced a murderer into giving him his pleasure. That aside, he was happy to go ahead and hang Lindley. Not only would the villagers’ demand for justice be satisfied, but more importantly for Edgar, Lindley, the man who knew that the lord was a predatory sodomite, would be silenced for good.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Lindley tell me?’ asked Stanton. ‘I can understand why he didn’t when you and Edgar were present. But I was alone with him.’

  ‘Oh, Stanton, Stanton. The sin of sodomy is among the gravest there is, with the worst acts the gravest of all. Had you had the opportunity to read the great writings of Saint Peter Damian, such as I have, you would know that.’ Barling bent his head, spoke almost to himself. ‘The devil’s artful fraud devises these degrees of falling into ruin. The higher the level the unfortunate soul reaches in them, the deeper it sinks in the depths of hell’s pit.’ He raised his gaze to Stanton. ‘The depths.’