Grave Goods (35 page)

Captain Bolt and his men cleared a way through with the flat of their swords.

In a vast field outside the Bishop’s Palace, the itinerant justices—the earls, barons, and bishops whom Henry trusted to administer his laws—sat on benches in the shade of striped awnings, the accused, the witnesses, and juries in front of them. Executioners stood to their gallows beside tables holding blinding irons and axes.

Clattering over the bridge crossing the bishop’s moat, Captain Bolt’s cavalcade trotted through the rose-scented orderliness of the bishop’s gardens to draw up outside the grandeur of the Bishop’s Palace.

Mansur helped Adelia and Millie dismount and took the long basket out of the saddlebag. “Keep tight hold of it,” Adelia told him.

A groom took their horses but flinched at the sight of the tithing’s donkeys. “I ain’t putting them mokes in my stables.”

Captain Bolt produced a summons. “The bishop of Saint Albans wishes to see these men.”

“What,
them?”
The groom looked from the seal to the tithing, then to Mansur. “And
him
?”

“Just get on with it,” the captain said.

The exchange had to be repeated several times before they were allowed up the steps of the palace and into its entrance hall. They waited while the bishop of Saint Albans was fetched. The tithing used the time to wander around and stare at the hall’s decoration and ornaments, watched by the majordomo with the air of a man whose carpets were being trampled by a flock of muddy sheep.

“Look at that, Will.” Alf was staring at a particularly fine tapestry. “That’s Noah building the ark, ain’t it?”

“Lot of needlework gone into that, Alf. Fetch all of ten shilling, I reckon,” Will said knowledgeably.

“Well, he ain’t going to get the ark built that way; he’s holding the adze all wrong.”

Rowley came striding toward them. In full mitered regalia, he looked imposing but tired. He bowed to Mansur. “What on earth have you got there?”

“It is a basket for holding fishing rods,” Mansur answered truthfully, in Arabic. Other people were listening.

Rowley raised his eyebrows but accepted it. He bowed in Adelia’s direction and nodded at the tithing. “Come along.”

Captain Bolt said, “My lord, I got to present Mistress Adelia here to the king soon as possible.”

“The king is in conclave with the papal legate and will be for some time yet,” Rowley told him. “In the meantime, the lady must translate for my lord Mansur, should it be necessary. We shan’t be long.”

He led the way out and along a back path going to the field of judgments. It was like threading a way through hundreds of scattered bees. Juries, that innovation demanded by the king, buzzed their accounts to the judges of what they knew of the accused and the case. A woman was up for having badly beaten her neighbor for throwing mud at her washing on a clothesline. . . .

“But we do reckon as there’s always been bad blood betwixt ’em,” the foreman was saying, “Alice havin’ previous attacked Margaret over the matter of a milk jug. Both as bad as each other, we reckon …”

Adelia would have liked to linger to hear the judgment on Alice and Margaret, but Rowley was hurrying her.

Further on, a wretch was being ordered to leave the realm, the jury having declared that though he’d been acquitted of rape because his accuser couldn’t prove it, to their personal knowledge he was of bad character and a pest to all women.

Adelia found herself softening toward Henry Plantagenet. How much fairer it was to employ a jury rather than throwing
people into ponds to see if God made them float (guilty) or sink (innocent)—a form of trial the king hoped to get rid of eventually.

She heard the judge say, “And his goods to be confiscated to the Crown.”

Well, yes, that too. Always the opportunist, Henry, when it came to money.

Adelia was followed by Millie, whose darting eyes were taking in what her ears could not. They reached their destination, an ash tree under which a judge on a dais was bad-temperedly flicking a fly whisk in front of his sweating face. Four men were being brought out of a nearby very crowded pound, which held the day’s accused—Adelia assumed they were the remainder of Eustace’s tithing who’d been kept in custody.

A tonsured clerk sat by the judge at a lower table, a high pile of scrolls in front of him.

Will, Alf, Toki, Ollie, and the tithing member whose name Adelia had learned was Jesse were pushed alongside their fellows by an usher with the dimensions of a Goliath.

The clerk picked up one of the scrolls. “My lord, this is a frankpledge case wherein the abbot of Glastonbury accused a certain Eustace of Glastonbury belonging to this tithing before you of having started the great fire. . . .”

The judge glared at the tithing. “I expect he did, the monster. They all look like arsonists to me.”

“Yes, my lord, but . . .”

“And those rogues there kept me waiting.” The judge pointed at Will’s group. “That’s an offense in itself.”

“Yes, my lord, but the charge has been withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn?”
It was the bark of a vixen robbed of her whelps.

“Both the abbot of Glastonbury and Eustace being dead, my lord, and . . .”

The judge’s choler abated slightly. “Good man, Abbot Sigward. Met him at Winchester one Easter. Saintly man.” He gathered himself. “But because accuser and accused are dead doesn’t mean Eustace didn’t do it, nor that these rogues should be let off their pledges for him.”

“Apparently he
didn’t
do it, my lord.”

“He didn’t? How do we know? Did anybody see him
not
doing it? The fire was a tragedy; somebody’s got to pay for it.”

“Yes, my lord, but …”

Rowley stepped forward. “I represent the abbey in this case, my lord. Its monks are still in mourning for their abbot and cannot appear. On their behalf, the charge is withdrawn.”

The judge got up and bowed. “My lord bishop.”

“My lord.” Rowley bowed back. “It has been proved that Eustace was innocent of the fire… .”

“Who by?” The judge was refusing to let go of his prey.

“It was started by one of the monks accidentally.” Rowley produced a document from a pocket attached to the gold cord around his waist. “This is the deposition by a Brother Titus… .”

“Taking the blame out of Christian charity, no doubt. You sure this Eustace didn’t have a hand in it?”

The clerk intervened, beckoning to twelve men who’d been standing by. “My lord, to make sure, a jury was summoned and has been to the abbey to see the proof of Eustace’s innocence… .” The usher gestured to twelve men who’d been waiting nervously nearby.

In the judge’s opinion, they didn’t rate much higher than the tithing, being of the same class. “Summoned by good summoners, were they?”

“Excellent, my lord, and have been to view both the abbey fire and the evidence.”

“There
was
evidence, then?”

The jury foreman stepped out. “My lord, that dark gentleman there showed us and explained… . It was all to do with fingers an’ a trap, very clever it was… .”

The judge had turned his attention to Mansur. “A Saracen? And what’s that he’s holding? Some outlandish weapon?”

The foreman pressed on. “Course, the lady had to tell us what he was saying, her bein’ able to jabber the same language as what he does… .”

“Speaks Arabic, does she?” The judge’s eyes rested on Adelia. “Probably no more Christian than he is. And they’re
witnesses?”

“My lord,” the bishop of Saint Albans said, “the lord Mansur is used by the king as his special investigator… .”

“Where
does
he find them?” the judge asked the sky. And then, “I don’t care if he’s used by the Angel Gabriel. It’s up to the jury here. If they’re satisfied …”

“We are, my lord. Eustace di’n’t do it.”

“Oh, very
well
.” But the judge was still looking for a loophole. “However, gentlemen of the jury, can you vouch for the good character of this tithing?”

There was a dreadful pause. Toki’s hand went under his tunic and he began scratching like a dog sent mad by fleas.

“We ain’t sure as how they’ve been a-livin’ since their homes was burnt down,” the foreman said cautiously, “but nothin’s known against ’em, not really
known
like. An’ Will of Glastonbury, that one there, he’s a prize baker.”

The judge sighed. “Then they are quit.” His clerk handed him a scroll and he scribbled a signature on it. “We are obliged to the bishop of Saint Albans for his attendance. Call the next case.”

The next case, a man whose feet were hobbled, was being lifted out of the pound by the usher to face the judge. A new panel of jurors shuffled into the shade of the tree.

The tithing stood where it was for a moment, bemused, before Will stepped forward and proffered a grimy hand to the judge. “Very obliged, my lord.” The usher pushed him away.

Alf was running after the foreman of the departing jury, trying to kiss him.

Will doffed his cap to the bishop, grunted at Mansur and Adelia, and slouched off.

“That’s all the thanks you get,” Rowley said. It was the first time he’d spoken to Adelia today; he’d barely looked at her.

Affectionately, she watched the tithing disappear into the crowd. “A jury,” she said. “King Henry, for these men, for all who are on trial, I thank you.”

“The greatest lawgiver since Solomon,” Rowley said, and then winked. “Mind you, it’s lucrative. But better all the fines and confiscated goods in Henry’s pocket than anyone else’s.”

A clerk was trying for the bishop’s attention. “My lord, you are listed to sit on the Lord of Newcastle’s case. If you’d follow me …”

With a wave of his hand, Rowley was gone.

And that’s how it will be,
Adelia thought,
no recognition in public, brief moments, impermanence. Still, Allie and I will be happy to opt for that.

Captain Bolt was stamping with impatience. “The king, mistress …”

Adelia took the long basket from Mansur. Mentally, she apologized to the bones on the Tor:
You see, Henry is your inheritor after all; look at the justice he has brought to your island.

At the palace, the majordomo led the captain, Adelia, Mansur, and Millie up a beautiful staircase to a long, heavily windowed gallery containing an equally long line of people. Benches had been set for them.

“Petitioners,” Captain Bolt said disgustedly. “How long we going to have to wait? The king wanted to see this lady urgent.”

“The lord king is with the papal legate, mistress,” the majordomo said. “When he’s finished … Oh my God,
will you stop that bloody pig shitting on the floor?”

It was a nice floor, tiled with ceramic coats of arms. It was a nice pig, if unstable as to its digestion. The large countrywoman holding it on a lead nodded amiably, lifted it onto her lap, and wiped its bottom with her sleeve.

“Does she have to be here?” the majordomo begged a royal clerk who stood at the door of the receiving room with a scroll in his hand and a writing desk hanging from his neck. Adelia had seen him before; she tried to remember his name.

“
All
petitioners, the king said,” the clerk told him. “She’s a petitioner. Maybe the pig is.”

“I’ll go and petition a bloody bucket and cloth, then,” the majordomo said bitterly.

Most of the gallery’s occupants, a motley lot, were anxious, their mouths moving as they rehearsed what they would say to the king. Only the countrywoman, with a sangfroid to shame nobility, seemed at ease.

Adelia and Millie took a seat next to her. The open windows of the receiving room where the king was in discussion allowed its occupants’ exchanges to drift along the outside sunny air and through the open windows of the gallery, though only Henry’s voice could be heard clearly. It rasped on the ear at the best of times—and this, obviously, was not a good time.

“I won’t have it, Monseigneur. I’m not going to take out their tongues nor cut off their balls, nor any other part of their anatomy. And I’m certainly not going to execute them.”

The legate’s reply was lower and more controlled. Adelia caught the word “heretics.”

“Heretics? Because they oppose the sale of indulgences?
I
don’t
like the sale of indulgences. I was taught sins were paid for in hell, not by a handful of cash to the nearest priest. Does that make
me
a heretic?”

Another murmur.

Adelia could see the clerk at the door was becoming nervous—Robert, that was his name, Master Robert.

“You
do it, then.” The king’s voice again. “Let the Church punish ’em … oh, I forgot, you can’t do it, can you? The Church can’t shed blood, but it’s happy to see heretics skinned alive by a civil court. Not your criminal clerks, though, oh, no, you won’t do that. I’ve got a case in Nottingham, six-year-old boy assaulted by a priest. Try the accused in your court, I told the bishop, and if you find him guilty,
which
you will, hand him over to mine—we’ll see he doesn’t bugger anybody ever again. But
oh,
no, he’s a priest; can’t touch a priest, that’s purely a Church matter—so the bastard’s free to do it again.”

Don’t mention Becket,
thought Adelia, wincing.
Don’t give them cause to best you again.

Winning the argument with his king might have cost Archbishop Becket his life, but it had gained him sainthood—
and
the continuing inviolability of the clergy from civil prosecution.

The door to the receiving room was opening. A fat, angry man in the robes and scarlet hat of a cardinal emerged from behind it. Adelia caught a whiff of scent and sweat as he lumbered past. The Plantagenet stood in the doorway, balefully watching him go.

“Um,”
Master Robert said unhappily.

“What,” his
king shouted at him.

“Well, we’re on rather thin ice here, my lord. The monseigneur
does
represent the Pope. And the Pope—”

“Can put England under interdict if I won’t punish its heretics,
thank you, Robert, I know. How many of these bloody heretics are there?”

“Three, my lord.”