by L. A. Morse
“I do not think.”
“That is obvious.”
“I only do what I have to do. Will you come peacefully, or must I chain you?”
“There is no need to chain me.”
“Good.”
At the door, the Sheriff stops. “Before we go, may I have another sip of that excellent ale? This is a thirsty business.”
Fairlie speaks through clenched teeth. “Sheriff, you will understand if I do not further extend my hospitality.”
Looking wistfully at the keg of ale, the Sheriff shrugs, then sighs at the thanklessness of his lot.
Heavy drapes cover the stone walls of the Magistrate’s large room, but they fail to make it pleasant. Like the Magistrate, the room is austere, spartan. The Magistrate sits at a big table on a platform, flanked by the Bishop and several other men.
Rob Varney and Fairlie stand before the tribunal, the Sheriff behind them. The disreputable Varney is bent almost double in his usual crouch. The innkeeper’s customary good humor has totally vanished; even his wiry red hair seems to bristle angrily.
The inquiry is almost over. The Magistrate speaks in a thin, hollow voice.
“And is that all the material to be heard in this matter, or is there more, Sheriff?”
“That is all, my lord. I think that—”
“Then I will summarize the situation. Rob Varney has laid the charge that Master Fairlie, innkeeper of The Three Bells, is guilty of murdering travelers who stop at his inn. Also that he is a practitioner of the black arts and a worshiper of the devil. If true, these are most serious offenses against both civil law and God’s law. For his part, Master Fairlie denies the charges completely. He lodges a counter accusation that Rob Varney is a thief and a liar, and is guilty of slander and perjury. Rob Varney maintains that he has seen Master Fairlie commit these acts, and Master Fairlie maintains his innocence. Sheriff, is this a fair summary of the matter at hand?”
“It is, my lord, and if I may say—”
“And you have discovered no further evidence that could assist us to resolve the issue?”
“No, my lord, but that does not mean—”
“Aye, Sheriff.” The Magistrate displays his rare, humorless smile. “We are well aware that you have already pointed out at great length that in a case such as this the absence of evidence is not particularly significant. If the charges were true, we would not expect evidence to remain, and therefore the absence of evidence tells against the prisoner.”
Fairlie bursts out, “But my lord, how can you say that—”
“You have had your opportunity to speak! I will not tell you again to remain silent. Do you understand?”
Fairlie bows his head.
“On the other hand,” the Magistrate continues, “the absence of evidence might support the claim of innocence. This is a case of great complexity, and it does not seem to me that the truth of it can be discovered by human intelligence. Do you agree?”
The other members of the tribunal look somewhat mystified, but nod their agreement.
“Though it may appear somewhat unconventional now, I feel that we must rely upon older methods to determine truth and innocence. As they say, ‘Where man’s intellect fails, God’s wisdom must prevail.’ I believe the water test is appropriate in this instance. Do you agree?”
Again the others nod.
“Then, Bishop, will you assist the Sheriff in making the necessary preparations?”
“Certainly,” the Bishop says.
“Sheriff, you are authorized to conclude this matter as quickly as possible. This inquiry is now ended. Rob Varney and James Fairlie, your fate is in God’s hands. Remember, innocence and truth have nothing to fear when He is the judge.”
The Bishop says, “Amen,” and the others echo him. Only Fairlie keeps silent.
The dawn has come—a dull, damp day. Wisps of mist hang over a small pond, connecting the gray sky to the gray water. A narrow pier extends out over the pond, and the Bishop stands at the end of it. The Sheriff, Varney, Fairlie, and several guards stand at the shore end of the pier, watching the Bishop. All except Varney and Fairlie are warmly dressed against the cold.
The Bishop raises his hands in prayer. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I bless this water. Lord, water is the purest of the elements Thou hast placed upon this earth. Let Thy pure water assist us in determining the truth. Let it accept innocence and reject impurity. Let it be the means by which we, Thy humble servants, can understand Thy divine wisdom and act according to Thy wishes. Bless this water, O Lord, and make it pure. Amen.”
The Bishop walks back to the others, and the Sheriff begins the trial.
“James Fairlie, you will be tested first. Do you understand what will take place?” Fairlie does not answer, and the Sheriff shrugs and continues. “You will be thrown into the water. If you are innocent, the pure water will accept you. If you are guilty, the water will reject you as impure. Do you understand?”
Fairlie responds with great bitterness. “I understand very well what will occur.”
The Bishop says confidently, “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. God is great and merciful.”
“I do not know much about God,” Fairlie sneers, “but I begin to learn a great deal about men. Unfortunately, my knowledge comes too late to be of value to me.”
The dampness makes the Sheriff shiver despite his thick cloak. He orders a guard to secure the prisoner. The guard wraps a thick rope several times around Fairlie’s chest.
“What is this for?” Fairlie asks.
“To retrieve you from the water,” the Sheriff says, and ignores the innkeeper’s contemptuous snort. He orders the guard to proceed, and Fairlie is marched to the end of the pier, where the free end of the rope is tied to a piling. At the Sheriff’s signal, the guard gives the bound man a shove.
Fairlie splashes into the water and sinks. Soon the water settles, and only the rope can be seen floating on the smooth surface. The Sheriff and the guard stare intently at the water. After a moment the surface is broken by Fairlie, gasping for air and thrashing. When it becomes obvious that the innkeeper can swim and will remain afloat, the Sheriff orders the guard to haul him out.
The guard drags Fairlie up onto the pier, then removes the rope and marches him back to the Sheriff. Rob Varney has edged slowly away from the others, his one eye gleaming with pleasure.
“There can be no doubt,” the Sheriff says. “The water has rejected you. The case is proven.”
Fairlie is shivering violently, but with a great effort he manages to control himself. “All that has been proven is that I can swim, and that I was unable to drown myself, which is what I tried to do. It seemed a better end than the one I face now.”
The Sheriff is scornful. “You have been tested by water and found guilty. You will be taken to await execution!”
Varney jumps up and down, cackling with glee. “Guilty! Guilty! I told you, I told you!”
Fairlie is capable of accepting his unreasonable fate, but Varney’s exultation is more than he can tolerate. Turning to the Sheriff, he says, “This is a serious matter, is it not?”
“Of course.”
“Serious enough to justify a further test to make doubly certain?”
“What do you mean?” The Sheriff wonders why these people cannot leave well enough alone.
“I mean that Rob Varney should be tested.”
Varney is suddenly wary.
“I see no need for that,” the Sheriff says. “The results are conclusive.”
“No need! There no need. Guilty! Guilty! No need.” Varney jumps up and down like a deranged ape.
Fairlie speaks in a most reasonable manner. “But if the results are conclusive, another test will merely confirm them. Is it not better to be doubly sure?”
The Sheriff considers. “I don’t know....” He is more interested in having breakfast.
“Then there can be no objection to a second trial,” Fairlie says firmly.
He turns to the Bishop. “If the first trial was valid, the second will be as well, will it not?”
“Certainly.”
“Then what is the objection to testing Rob Varney?”
Rob Varney has several objections. “No need. I tell truth. He guilty. Guilty.”
Confused, the Bishop pulls at his chin. “It is most irregular, but put the way you put it, I can see no objection. Sheriff?”
“It seems queer to me, but if you think we should, Your Grace, I will do it.”
The discussion might have continued for some time, but Rob Varney resolves the issue by shrieking in panic and running away. The guards catch him and drag him back.
Varney is choked with fear. “No! No! No need. I tell the truth! Do not listen to him. He guilty! He bad. I tell the truth.”
Fairlie smiles. “Then you have nothing to fear. Is that not correct, Your Grace?”
The guards tie the rope around the shrieking Varney. When he is secure, the Sheriff says, “Rob Varney, you will now be tested by water. If you have told the truth, you need not worry.”
The struggling Varney is carried to the end of the pier. The rope is tied to a piling, and the screaming man is tossed into the water.
Varney sinks, but soon rises, spitting water as he yells for help. He sinks and rises again, still yelling. Then he swallows water, chokes, sinks again. A moment passes and the surface of the water becomes smooth.
The Sheriff looks at Fairlie. “You see? He was telling the truth. The pure water accepted him.”
Fairlie snorts. “That water, in all its purity, has killed two men today. I am not that impure. I have no lives on my conscience... unless it be that wretch who has just drowned. And I have difficulty in feeling any remorse for that.” He looks at the impassive faces about him. “You are content with your morning’s work?”
“The truth has been discovered according to the law,” the Sheriff says stiffly.
“God in His infinite wisdom has guided us. Let His will be done,” the Bishop answers.
Fairlie starts to say something, then realizes it would be pointless. He shivers. “I am cold. And I am tired of this. Let us be finished with it.”
To everyone’s surprise, he turns and walks away from the pond. The guards hurry after him, but it is obvious that he is not trying to escape. The Sheriff and the Bishop look at each other, then shrug and join the procession that
Fairlie leads back to town.
Fairlie dangles from the gallows in Market Square, scarcely recognizable now as something that was once human. His eyes, his lips, and bits of his face have been picked out by birds. Two crows are perched on his head, squabbling raucously as they continue to, de-flesh the skull.
The sight of a corpse hanging in the square is not uncommon, and few of the townspeople pay attention. Master Cutter, however, stands looking up at the gallows with an expression of disgust and contempt. Ashton joins him, but the sight of the dead man makes him queasy and he turns his eyes away.
“Perhaps our troubles are over now that the villain has been executed,” he says.
“Do you believe that?” Cutter gives a mirthless laugh.
Ashton blushes. “No, I suppose I do not. Do you?”
“The only thing this man was guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The evidence was not exactly convincing,” Ashton ventures cautiously.
“Convincing! The only evidence was the word of some low-life thief who should have been hung years ago, and who bore a grudge against this man. But once again our illustrious Sheriff was in hot water and felt obliged to do something. Poor Fairlie just happened to be in the way. I would rather face those who are responsible for the disappearances than face the Sheriff when he is looking for a solution!”
“I no longer know what to think,” Ashton says weakly.
Cutter fixes him with a gimlet stare. “Well, I do. These strange disappearances have been going on for twenty years. Was Fairlie responsible for them—all that time? Or were any of the other ‘criminals’ the Sheriff has paraded before us? Not likely! Every few months the mystery is solved—until it starts again. I tell you”—Cutter pokes Ashton in the ribs with a bony finger—”between the Sheriff and who or whatever is making people disappear, this country will be a desert soon.”
Ashton shrugs, trying to shake off this threat of disaster. “Perhaps not, now that our good King James I has been released from England, to rule again here in Scotland.”
“It is better that he is here, of course, than held prisoner by the English, but he will be more concerned about affairs of state than about our problems. Anyway, what can he do for us?”
“He has an army, and I have heard that he is most distressed by reports of the chaos that grips this district. We were too long without a King.”
“Without a King—and possessed of a Sheriff. The combination is devastating. Do you know that things have reached such proportions that our problems and our Sheriff are now the subjects or mummers’ plays? They are performed at fairs, and we are held up to ridicule. We are the laughing stock of the country. But at the same time, only the most dire necessity will make someone come to our town. Inns are closing on our highways because of lack of trade. And perhaps because other innkeepers fear they will share Fairlie’s fate.”
“He is out of it now.”
Cutter looks up at the corpse. “Ha. That he is. He no longer has to worry about business being poor. A comforting thought, Ashton.”
II
In an open field near a crossroads, a large fair is in progress. Dozens of makeshift stalls are set up, and a multitude of wagons serve as stages and stands. From these, vendors sell a variety of goods, some useful, some frivolous.
Hundreds of people move about the fairgrounds. Most have arrived early and have already completed their business. Now they are free to roam the grounds, to spend their money and enjoy the strange and wonderful sights. There are many hilarious games and contests, and every type of person and costume is to be seen and marveled at—jugglers, clowns, dwarfs, even a trained bear.
A farmer and his wife move from stall to stall. She is a tall, plain woman whose pleasant features radiate a childlike enthusiasm; her eyes are bright as she points out interesting objects to her husband. He has the skeptical glance of a man who works hard and knows the value of things, but his eyes also shine at the sight of his wife bubbling with excitement over some trifle. His love for her is evident.
They walk by a baker’s stall decorated with brightly painted pictures of various birds.
“I have all manner of pies here—pigeon, partridge, pheasant. What is your pleasure?” the baker calls out. “The pigeon is the best you have ever tasted. The partridge is sheer ambrosia. And the pheasant—the pheasant!— words cannot describe its succulence! Which will you have? Two large pieces for a penny!” He holds out a large wedge of greasy pie, but the woman smiles in polite refusal.
The couple strolls on to a stall selling cloth and other items for dressmaking. The clothier holds up samples of his wares. “What would you like? I have the finest lace from Bruges”—he offers a yellowed piece, of cloth that looks as if it has been nibbled by rats—”the sheerest silk from France”—this is a muddy rag that may or may not be the fabric in question—”the richest brocade from Spain”—he holds out a hideous wine-colored material suffering from the pox—”and the softest wool from Britain. I have silver needles, I have beads from Italy...”
“Oh, Tom, look at these!” the wife says, pointing to the brightly colored beads.
“All the way from Venice,” the clothier states with perfect sincerity. “Glass, they are. Look at the way they catch the light. You’ll not find beads like this anywhere else in Scotland. Bought from a Moorish seaman. Because you appreciate them, I will make you a very low price.” He pauses significantly. “I am going almost to give them to you.”
“Tom, what do you think?”
“I think it is time to go on,” her husband dec
ides. “Come along, old girl.”
She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “You’re right... they were pretty though,” she says as they move off.
“That they were. And maybe someday you shall have some. We have had a very good day today. I sold all that I brought here at a very good price. Next year should be even better. Why, before you know it, I am going to have you decked out like some great lady! You can have beads like that by the bushel.”
“That would be wonderful.” A smile lightens her face, and she presses his arm affectionately.
They join the crowd at the Pardoner’s wagon.
The Pardoner’s display is elaborate. There are crudely painted religious scenes, statues, and a number of curious objects in intricately carved and painted containers.
The Pardoner is thin with shiny, yellow hair that hangs down to his shoulders. His skin is smooth and soft, and it looks as though it has never known a razor. His high-pitched, pleasing voice carries a considerable distance.
“Come close, my children. Come close, my thweets.” He lisps somewhat, “I have good tidings for you, and wondrous things. I come direct from Rome, where His Holiness the Pope has authorized me to dispense indulgences to you.
“It is indeed fortunate that we are met today. Fortunate for me, because I delight in bringing joy. Fortunate for you, because I am empowered to grant indulgences that will shorten the time you must spend in purgatory before the gates of heaven open for you to join Christ, our Redeemer and our Savior.”
With one hand on his hip, the Pardoner waggles a cautionary finger. “Listen to me closely, because I will pass this way only once. I have many places to visit before my mission is completed. Beware of pardoners who are false, who do not have the authority of Rome. I can prove I am true. Look!” He holds up a dirty bit of muslin rag. “A piece of the handkerchief the blessed St. Veronica gave to our Savior on the road to Golgotha.” He holds up a dented goblet. “Look! The cup from which St. Peter drank at the Last Supper.” He opens a container and reveals what could be part of the axle of his wagon. “Most wondrous of all! A fragment of the True Cross upon which our Savior died for our sins! Look upon these miraculous relics, and you will know that I am a true pardoner, sent from Rome to help you in the next life.