“The only reason I made such a claim was to escape a bloody death from the so-called justice of grand burgher Wholeheart. Those so-called credible witnesses were never brought before me to utter their words. The only accuser I’ve seen before my eyes was the grand burgher; claiming to act on the basis of several testimonies. The accused should be able to face his accusers. That’s the kind of justice the nobles get – ”
“You are not a nobleman, Gallard,” said priest Harlam, shaking his head. “You’re just a lowborn who happens to know how to read, nothing more. Yes, the world is filled with double standards. I know… I truly didn’t believe your demonic possession claim to begin with. Not even when you uttered the names of the evil ones in front of the rabble, to make everyone believe it. And I don’t care whether or not you committed the crime.”
That was all Drakanes needed to hear; not that it wasn’t obvious. What was happening in the courthouse was travesty. A sheer farce and nothing else.
“The grand burgher wanted and still wants to give you a public execution. He couldn’t do that once you shouted demonic possession in front of everyone… Therefore, I was tasked with gathering a body of proctors, as is required in such circumstances. And a quick trial is in the interest of both parties; I’m sure you agree.” Harlam grinned…
He’s grinning like the heartless maggot that he is. Drakanes had sniffed the priest well from the very beginning. She scowled beneath her hood. This trial is a hoax. And I’m expected to follow through; to participate in crime and treachery.
“I didn’t kill that girl or anyone in my life – not even a cat or a mongrel. I beg you, sir. Make the grand burgher bring forth those lying witnesses of his, and I’ll defend myself from there. That’s all I ask.”
“Oh, my-my, Jon Gallard. You are a dramatic one, aren’t you? And a witty one, I’ll grant you that; but you fail to see the position you’re in. Why would I bother the grand burgher with the procedure grievances of a soon to be corpse?” The priest turned his eyes in a wicked narrowness, and curled his lips with particular satisfaction. “You’ve further renounced what scraps of good faith you still had by pleading demonic possession and then retracting it – admitting that you’ve invoked it only to save your skin from laic judgement and sentence.”
“Yes, sentence,” said Jon Gallard. “Not judgement, not trial, for it was never offered to me. All it was, was a sentence… death by having my head smashed with a morning star. Your ill character is plain to see, Harlam. Alas, you do not control the outcome of this inquisitorial trial, the proctors do. The proctors here present took note of your every word. They will pass judgement upon my fate. And even then, only the gods may judge my soul. But the proctors will decide what becomes of me, not you.”
“So you think that these five do not agree with my decision? Very well… Let’s hear what each of them has to say.” The priest called them forth. All five proctors would have to pull their cowls back and reveal their heads before speaking. Each voice was one of sentence; and it all came down to a simple ruling of numbers.
The first man’s lips parted to speak the verdict. “I, brother Patrick of Sullsburry, find the accused, Jon Gallard… guilty of falsehood and murder.”
The second proctor stepped forth. “I, brother Bartholomew of Bernn, find the accused guilty of falsehood and murder.”
“I,” said the third, “brother Gaskar of Strongbrass find the accused guilty of falsehood and murder. May the gods grant you fitting punishment in the afterlife.”
Her fellow sister was next. Drakanes hoped her verdict would be different. “I, sister Pollova of Greengrove, find the accused guilty of falsehood and murder. I will pray for your soul, Jon Gallard; I will pray for the gods to grant you mercy.”
Huh, bloody hell. Some hope... It was now her turn. Drakanes made two steps forward; staring at the accused man’s features. When she was very young – well before she joined the Temple – her benefactor, an old cloth merchant, had taught her of aspect and character. That age brought the face a man or woman deserved. A snake may have beautiful colours and mesmerizing eyes, just like a peacock’s feathered tail. But the truth of things is never found on the outside. The same was true for all souls.
“The eyes, sweet lass,” the merchant used to say to her, when she was only a child. “That’s where it’s at. The eyes are the doors of the soul; secrets and fears lie behind them. Behind them, and the jawline, the brow, the nose, and the smile... Eh, all smiles are daggers. And though they may appear blunt, they can turn sharp in a moment’s breath. Take a good look at someone, and you’ll know what to expect. Expect everything you don’t see. For truth is always kept outside of light.”
Drakanes was looking now – straight into the eyes of this Jon Gallard, who expected the fifth proctor’s verdict to be like all the previous four. “This is my judgement,” she said while throwing back her cowl. Everyone regarded her strangely, she knew; but she didn’t give a rat’s shit of it. “I, sister Drakanes of the High Temple of the Matriarch, find the accused, Jon Gallard, guilty… of falsehood, but innocent of murder.”
Priest Harlam’s face had grown dark then, and the man’s frowning gave her all the more satisfaction. “I maintain that he should be confronted directly with his accusing witnesses, so that he may defend himself – ”
“What!?” The priest cut her off. “Who do you think you are!? You, you… lowly woman!” His face reddened, and his fists trembled inside his long sleeves.
“The man admitted his deception,” Drakanes said at length, trying to maintain her composure. “And he disclosed the unlawful manner in which he was tried and condemned. The grand burgher made a scapegoat out of him; it’s as plain as daylight. This body of proctors, Jacob Harlam, holds the final verdict of this inquisitorial court. And we have the opportunity to set things right.” Drakanes approached the accused and grabbed his chains, pulling them up for all six to see.
“Mayhaps the right to face one’s accusers is more of a privilege for the higher orders, ’tis not negligible in inquisitorial procedure. This man has a right to defend himself and counter the claims of his accusers. He was denied this right, so intelligent as he was, Gallard invoked demonic possession before the eyes of the rabble to avoid an unjust death sentence. We five proctors can bring this case to the light of justice – ”
“Oh, bugger that you bald-headed bitch!” She could see the priest’s malice dripping like poison from his features and from his words. “You’re just one proctor! It’s one against four. This trial is over; and this man is bound to the grand burgher’s justice.”
“Not four against one,” intervened sister Pollova, “but three against two. I was in error; however, sister Drakanes has made clear her reasoning. She has the right of it; and her verdict is now mine as well.”
“Demons beneath us!” Priest Harlam yelled out, while making a motion to pull at his hairs, those scraps he still had left. “Have you all gone mad!? I don’t need Wholeheart at my throat on account for this.”
“So you admit then,” spoke Drakanes. “This trial was never about truth or justice. You had your mind made up from the start. You don’t care what happens to this man, so long as his fate passes again in the hands of the grand burgher, and away from yours.”
“Yes, yes… haven’t I made it clear enough? Bloody woman. Thank the Three the Inquisition was never shared with you Matriarchal upstarts, else no heretic would have ever been punished. And we would have ended up under the rule of that worshiper of blood gods, Zygar Ferus, to this very day.” He banged his fist against the wall in anger, then sighed. “Eh... So the trial’s decision will pass with a minimum majority. It might not fully please the grand burgher; but he’ll have his way, nonetheless.”
Afterwards, the priest called in the town guards to seize and drag the accused to his bleak fate. The three proctors had left the courthouse without any word whatsoever. Cowards, Drakanes thought to herself. No justice or honor in them; only blind servitude for this fraud of a priest. S
ister Pollova of Greengrove, however, had remained by her side. The girl’s eyes were solemn, and her frown said it all.
“I’m lost for words, sister Drakanes. That poor man is going to be killed, and all because of our three brothers who’ve kept their silence and their wrong judgement against the right of your words. A great shame as well... The man knew how to read. Few craftsmen possess such valuable a knowledge.”
“There may yet be hope,” said Drakanes; her mind and heart screaming defiance. “Come, Pollova of Greengrove. I have a murder to put an end to, or at least try.”
When the two of them reached the town square, the gathering surrounding the scaffold was already brewing with silent agitation. Two knights flanked the grand burgher, as he stood fat and proud on his seat – measuring the rabble with what she thought was a most contemptible grin. To the other side, Jon Gallard was kept on his knees by another of the grand burgher’s creatures. And that man was the executioner, for he held the weapon in readiness – the morning star.
Drakanes led Pollova through the rabble, shouldering and pushing the agitated souls in their path; then approached the scaffold’s steps. When priest Harlam noticed their presence, he waved a menacing fist and spat a curse. But Wholeheart allowed them to walk up unhindered; signalling his men to make way. Drakanes ignored the priest’s protests, letting Pollova speak their tale to the grand burgher, and squatted near the condemned craftsman. The executioner retreated a few paces, allowing them a moment to talk; the crude spiked iron in his hands a reminder of terrible fate.
“Thank you, just and merciful sisters. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. At least now, I’ll die with my mind at peace. That through the use of my wit, I’ve made someone see the truth of my words. And that you, good sisters, tried to do me justice – ”
Drakanes narrowed her fiendish sight. “Stop it, Jon. For you are not dead yet.”
“Grand burgher,” priest Harlam said out loud for all the closer townsfolk to hear. “This liar’s fate is in your hands once more. What be it your judgement?”
Ieremia Wholeheart pushed himself from his chair. “First of, I do not understand why the two sisters doubt the fairness of my trial? Witnesses were brought forth to me, and I exercised judgement. This man’s a murderer, and his good character cannot be presumed while you, sisters, do not presume the same of me. But you have to abide by the trial’s decision, which was made under Temple law. Three out of five proctors concluded that mine word is just. Thus, I sentence this criminal to death by having his head bashed in with a morning star… as is our western custom.”
Wholeheart made a sign for the crier to start speaking. The announcer got up on the scaffold, and began to shout at the rabble the most arousing words. A pity they’re all lies, thought Drakanes. Lies with which to feed the hungry ears of fools.
“People! People!” Began the announcer. “Witness the justice being done here now. Jon Gallard is guilty of killing a small girl – a girl of six and ten with seven stabs of the knife in the belly. A few days ago before this very gathering, this knave pleaded to have been possessed by demons. After our good priest’s questioning of the accused, the council of proctors deemed Jon Gallard as false and guilty! Now, he faces his death sentence – his final moments alive on this earth. Let justice be done!”
Then, as the sounds of the rabble began to deafen the air around them, Drakanes turned to the innocent craftsman. She had thought of a way to save him. “Invoke trial by combat,” she whispered to him.
“But, but… none will stand for me.” Muttered the accused, while the executioner took a moment to scratch at his black mask and renew the grip over his weapon.
“It doesn’t matter. Invoke it. Demons beneath us, Gallard; this is no time for you to be embracing peace of mind. To be content with having your head smashed bloody.”
“But I have found that peace, good sister. I can no longer escape death… now, that I’ve tried my wit as best I could. I’ll be just another man who dies in the absence of a fair trial; not the first, nor the last. I do not fear death.”
“You fool,” she said frowning, then turned to the crowds and shouted – arms stretched and fists bold. “I demand trial by combat!” The rabble was cursing and cheering at the same time. Most of the people were oblivious to her words, so Drakanes cried out again, louder. “I demand trial by combat!” With that cry, the gathering of souls heard her, and so did priest Harlam; who was again waving his menacing fist.
The grand burgher also heard the demand. He rose from his chair and called for silence; then he spoke. His voice was oddly content. “Good sister, first of all; the man who stands accused has to demand it, not you.” He chuckled, so did his guards. “And second of all… the man’s a commoner. He’s not even a minor nobleman.”
“You heard that!?” Drakanes yelled out. “You’ve all heard! Good people of Bernn, Ieremia Wholeheart holds no respect for the common man. He himself is not even a full-blooded highborn. Yet, no one here is. I’m a woman! A sister of the cloth, daughter and servant of the Twin Moons. We take care of the sick, the elderly, the poor, and the cripples. We take pity on them. I myself am born from serfs. My parents were serfs, just like all of yours, just like their parents before them! Jon Gallard claims he did not kill that girl. The witnesses were never brought to his eyes to make their accusations to his face. Only to the eyes and face of the grand burgher. And now, Ieremia Wholeheart has the nerve to call his sentence justice, when in truth, no trial was held!”
She turned to Gallard, and grabbed him by the chain which bounded his shackled wrists. “Demand trial by combat,” Drakanes said once more, looking him straight in the eyes; and he looked back into hers. The man seemed to be enthralled.
“Your words are fire, good sister… bright fire – yellow, and orange, and fervid.” The craftsman rose to his feet and turned his head towards the rabble. “I demand trial by combaaat!!!” Jon Gallard’s voice was not a shout or cry, but a roar…
The people cheered in accord with great loudness, joining their own words in the demand. “Trial by combat, you fat scum!” Yelled out a man in the crowd. “By combat!” Echoed a woman with a babe sucking at her teat. And hundreds of other voices cried the same, stonemasons, craftsmen, wives, children, drunkards, beggars, harlots, merchants, even children... The grand burgher was left speechless, and a few in the crowds started throwing tomatoes at the executioner.
Under the noise and confusion, priest Jacob Harlam came at her in great wrath – trying to grab her by the wrists to push her away. Drakanes let loose the back of her hand to his face, and threw him off balance. Then she kicked him in the backside, and the priest came tumbling down the platform’s stairs.
“Alright!” Called the grand burgher. “Alright! Trial by combat it is then!” The crowds roared in satisfaction, and then… swiftly enough, they fell silent. “Who shall be my champion?” Ieremia Wholeheart looked to his men; squinting at the two knights who flanked his chair. “Sir Godefroy, will you do me this honor?”
“Yes. I will, grand burgher,” said the tall knight.
The man didn’t wear plate, only mail, a dusty-grey coat, longsword, boots, and coif. And as he came forth for the people to see him better; he offered them a cold smile. He seemed not a true landed knight... Rather a hedge knight for certain.
“Well, then? Does your criminal friend know how to use a sword? For I think that no one here wishes to champion a lowly creature such as him.”
Wholeheart had the right of it. The lively crowd, souls almost rebellious in their passion, had turned into a ghostly one… A rabble of statues. She expected as much. But they didn’t expect this. Drakanes threw back the hood to reveal herself. To reveal to them all her shaven skull and mismatched eyes of pale grey and brown. She drew a deep breath, raised her chin and said, “I will stand for Jon Gallard.”
Chapter XII: The Lord Of Rocks
Tobias Findley, lord of Stoneweed, sat silently in his solar, contemplating the things of past and those yet to
come. A lowborn couldn’t aspire for much in life; at least, not through honest and hard labor. He had always been shrewd, despite his upbringing in the teachings of the Faith. As the youngest son of a silks merchant, Tobias had learned quickly that trade. Every bargain had its ups and downs. Some hands needed more grease than others. And in some cases, one required a dagger close to grasp, a poison ready for a wine-cup. They may call poison a woman’s weapon, but fuck them. What do they truly know about it? Death is death, and murder is murder.
The lord of Stoneweed was no patrician. Aristocratic norms and wisdoms were beneath him; though different his knowledge and methods... they were, nonetheless, of a practical nature. A keen intellect was despised by all, most especially if that mind was of no blue blood. For that reason, he was treated as a jumped-up pleb. It was one thing for a lowborn to be made a knight, but to be made a lord… that was very rare indeed. And who gave him such a title? None other than the warden of the Eastlands. Mayhaps not an equal for the other lords by virtue of birth – even aristocrats amongst themselves rarely were – lord Findley was a peer by virtue of rank.
And now, the dog-headed serpent had summoned three of them to pass along a proposition of great venture; a plot he would not have been enlightened to, if not for his colourful past as a mercenary soldier. Now all my hard-earned tricks of guile are to serve me again. To sway the hearts of men through mere words; to conquer them as allies... make them betray their oaths. Such is my task, and I will see it done.
Tobias hadn’t killed anyone before he was pushed out of the family business by his older brothers, save for a drunk minstrel with his annoying harp. The minstrel had threatened him with a knife in one of Greytown’s shady taverns. With an open throat, the fool hadn’t lived to threaten or drink again...
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 15