The Dog of the North (15 page)

‘None of these tactics was in my mind. I thought rather to convince you that the balance of advantage to yourself lay in facilitating the audience. The farmer who owns a stubborn
gallumpher first tries to persuade it with a carrot; if the beast is still intractable, he belabours it with a stick. Both farmer and gallumpher prefer the carrot, but on occasion the stick remains
necessary.’

‘I hope you are not characterizing me as a farm gallumpher.’

‘I merely used a metaphor which from a certain angle bears some resemblance to our own transaction. You are no more a farm animal than I am a farmer.’

‘In that case your meaning escapes me.’

‘It is simply this. I have expended effort and money in securing your good will. To date both appear to have been wasted. I am known as the Dog of the North for a reason: I have a
justified reputation for harsh and bloody violence. I would not wish you to learn why, but equally I do not wish to forgo my audience with the King.’

Davanzato calmly finished his langensnap and stood up. ‘I am disappointed that you think me not only craven but a fool. I would only be cowed by your threats if I were of a nervous
disposition and giddy enough to think you would carry them out. Since my only use to you is as a live and functioning Under-Chamberlain, I may yet sleep easily in my bed. Good afternoon to you,
Beauceron.’

He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and pushed open the tavern door to allow entry to a gust of icy air. Beauceron looked after him and beckoned the pot-girl for another glass of
langensnap.

1

As Arren reached the top of the stairs, he heard a sound like an intake of breath, suddenly choked off. Could there be someone up here? In the dark, concealment would not
be difficult. The first chamber he looked into was empty. His foot creaked on the floorboard as he moved towards the second. He pushed open the door. Moonlight struggled through the grimed
windowpane. On the bed, curiously contorted, lay Eilla.

‘Look out!’ she cried, and Arren was aware of a movement to the side of him. From behind the door an arm reached out and buffeted Arren on the head. He staggered even as he threw
himself to the side.

‘What—’ he began, before a kick snapped into his kneecap. He turned awkwardly to face his assailant. In the moonlight he caught the glimmer of a knife blade.

‘Enough, young wolf,’ said the figure. Arren recognized the voice. It was the vintner Foulque, the owner of the house.

‘Foulque? What is going on?’

‘I might ask you what you are doing in my house.’

‘Why is Eilla on your bed?’

‘Ha ha! Are you so innocent?’

Arren grimaced. Foulque was corpulent and not enamoured of washing.

‘Arren! He was trying to force me!’ called Eilla from the bed. ‘He hurt my stomach.’

Arren stepped closer to Foulque, heedless of the knife. ‘Tell me what has happened here,’ he said. ‘You cannot frighten me with talk of trespass.’

Foulque shrugged. His face glistened with a patina of sweat. ‘The girl thought to use my house. I was happy for her to do so, if she paid an appropriate fee.’

‘Have you hurt her, you fat dungsack?’

‘There’s no call for that, just because Thaume has taken you from that slattern of a mother.’

‘I think we shall all go to the guardhouse, and let them decide what to make of events. Lord Thaume’s penalty for rape is gelding or the rope, depending on his humour. Which is your
preference?’

‘There’s no need for that, lad. It’s late. Get back to your bed. If the wench wants to come with you, she can.’

Arren tensed his shoulders. ‘After what you have tried to do, you suggest we simply forget the matter?’

Foulque leered and moved between Arren and the door.

‘I have the knife. You appear unarmed. Now, run along, before we discuss gelding once more.’

Arren turned away, his arms outstretched.

‘Arren!’ shouted Eilla. ‘No!’ as Foulque swung the knife at his back.

But Arren was ready. He ducked under the blow he had invited and punched hard into Foulque’s ample gut. Foulque gasped but continued to move towards Arren. With his knife arm Foulque
struck at Arren’s back, but Arren twisted away. Foulque stood panting as Arren skipped back out of range. He knew he was faster and nimbler than the vintner, but Foulque was strong and heavy
– and armed.

‘Eilla!’ he called. ‘Get out – go to the guardhouse.’

Eilla slipped from the bed, crouching in obvious discomfort. Foulque stepped towards her, and reached to grab her neck with his free hand. Arren slipped under the knife arm as Eilla brought her
knee up into his groin.

Foulque let out a surprisingly high-pitched cry as he buffeted Eilla’s head. She fell stunned to the floor, but Arren was inside the sweep of the knife. This time he hacked at
Foulque’s fleshy neck with the side of his hand; as the vintner recoiled Arren brought the heel of his hand up into the base of Foulque’s nose with all his force. Foulque fell back,
blood and mucus bubbling. His head smacked against the bed pillar and he fell to the floor. Arren stamped on his wrist, which gave a satisfying
crack!,
and knelt on Foulque’s neck. The
knife fell from nerveless fingers to lie on the floor.

Eilla had dragged herself to a sitting position. Arren looked across at her and put his full weight on his knee. Foulque thrashed and croaked. His eyes bulged and his cheeks took on a purple
flush.

‘Arren, no,’ said Eilla, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t kill him.’

‘Why not?’ hissed Arren. ‘Thaume will.’

‘Then let Thaume’s justice act for us all. There is no need for vengeance. He didn’t – you arrived just in time.’

Arren relaxed his pressure on Foulque’s neck. ‘Can you run to the guardhouse? My father is on duty tonight.’

Eilla nodded.

‘Good,’ said Arren. ‘We shall have Lord Thaume’s justice tomorrow. Do you hear me, Foulque? We shall have Lord Thaume’s justice. May it be more merciful than mine
would be.’

Foulque disdained to reply; or perhaps did not yet command the power of speech. In any event he kept his thoughts to himself.

2

At sunrise the next morning Lord Thaume was roused from his bed to sit in judgement on the merchant Foulque. He convened an immediate court in the marketplace. If Foulque
was not of a sanguine disposition, the immediate proximity of the gallows would be sure to give him pause for thought. The low morning sun struggled through the low cloud with a grey lassitude and
cast grotesquely exaggerated shadows.

The square rapidly filled with city folk. Foulque was not popular for his haughty ways or the price of his wines.

His hands were bound and a tether around his neck was held by Darrien. His nose was swollen and askew, both eyes black. His right hand hung within the tether. Lord Thaume sat in his black robes,
behind an oak table brought from the castle for the purpose and set on a platform. To one side sat Lady Jilka, to the other Viator Sleech.

‘Foulque,’ he said. ‘I am the true lord of this city, and in that capacity I sit in judgement. I may if needful call upon the counsel of my wife and the Way. Do you recognize
my authority?’

Foulque bowed his head. ‘I do, my lord,’ he said in a scratchy voice.

‘Good,’ said Lord Thaume briskly. ‘You stand accused of attempting to rape Eilla, the daughter of mason Jandille, as attested by Eilla herself, and Arren, the son of Darrien.
In addition you are held to have assaulted Arren with a knife with purpose malign. Do you declare your guilt?’

Foulque pushed his head forward. ‘I do not, my lord. Both were trespassing in my house, and looking to sequester my goods.’

‘Eilla? Arren? Do you have anything to say to this?’

Arren stepped forward to stand before the platform. ‘Foulque lies, my lord. Eilla and I were accustomed to meet in the house, which lay empty. We were friends before I came into your
household, and thought to keep in touch.’

‘Then why did you not come the last time, or the time before that?’ asked Foulque. ‘Eilla remained in the house by herself, seeking to inventory my goods. Last night you were
on hand to remove the items, until thwarted by my vigilance. I regret only that I did not bring the matter to your attention sooner, my lord.’

Lord Thaume frowned at Foulque. ‘You were aware of Eilla’s presence on previous weeks, and yet you did nothing?’

Foulque licked his lips. ‘I was unaware of her purpose until she arrived with Arren last night. It was only by my intervention that a great theft was averted.’

‘Your story is implausible in several aspects,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘First, Arren has learned combat at the side of Sir Langlan. If he had wished to incapacitate you and remove
your goods, he would have found no difficulty in doing so. Instead, he chose to inform my guards. Second, you are notorious for demanding the intercession of my guards at the slightest provocation:
it is not conceivable that you would have lain in wait to settle this matter yourself without inviting my guards to be on hand. Third, my wife has examined Eilla’s injuries. They are of a
personal nature, and are not consistent with any account you have given of the event. Do you have any observations before I render my judgement?’

‘What of Arren and Eilla? By their own account they are guilty of trespass.’

Lord Thaume nodded. ‘True. Arren, I fine you ten florins; Eilla, five. These sums are to be paid to Foulque within the week.’

‘But—’ began Arren.

‘Enough,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Now we move to Foulque. You are manifestly guilty of the crime. These are times of war, and I do not have the leisure or the inclination for a
protracted legal process. There are but two penalties for rape, or its attempt: gelding and the gallows. If anyone wishes to argue for one penalty or the other, now is the time to do so.’

Foulque spoke up, his face ashen. ‘I reject and object most strongly to either sentence.’

‘I anticipated such an objection,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Naturally I discountenance it. Eilla, you are the victim of this offence. Do you ask for clemency?’

Eilla, prim in her best white dress, looked at Lord Thaume with dumbstruck fascination. Silent tears ran down her cheeks.

‘My lord,’ said Lady Jilka. ‘Foulque is regular in his attendance at the Viatory and in his alms. He has no previous history of such acts.’

Lord Thaume shot his wife a look of incomprehension. ‘His religious beliefs magnify rather than ameliorate his offence. He might have been expected to adhere more strongly to the Way as a
result, and his conduct cannot possibly be seen in that light. As to his previous history, since the penalty for rape is death or gelding, it is hard to imagine how a repeat offence might
occur.’

Foulque looked around, but no one met his eye.

‘In addition,’ continued Lord Thaume, ‘the age and virginity of the victim weigh heavily against you.’

‘Virginity!’ croaked Foulque. ‘That one is no virgin!’

Lord Thaume looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘If I had any doubts as to your fate, they would now be at an end. You shall die on the tree, as soon the noose can be affixed. I myself
shall haul upon the rope. Do you have any final statement?’

Foulque looked back at Lord Thaume in silence. From his throat came a choking sound.

‘No? Viator Sleech, perhaps you would care to address the crowd while Darrien attends to the noose.’

Sleech rose from his seat beside Lord Thaume.

‘I am often asked at such times,’ he said in his soft querulous voice, ‘how the First Doctrine can be held to be true in these circumstances. It tells us that all human life
tends towards Harmony, and yet a man is to be hanged for a most heinous crime. How, then, can Foulque’s life be seen moving towards Harmony?’

Foulque, struggling as Darrien’s men attempted to slip the noose over his neck, appeared uninterested in this ontological nicety.

‘The answer, of course,’ continued Sleech, picking at the hem of his robe, ‘is that even at this last moment, Foulque may become conscious of his errors, and achieve one final
moment of Harmony. Indeed this may be seen as the purest journey to Harmony of all.’

Sleech paused expectantly and looked down at Foulque. The hint was lost, however, and Foulque did not evince a sudden access of Harmony. Sleech cleared his throat and continued.

‘In most cases,’ he said, ‘this desired event does not happen. What is proved, instead, is that we are all lost without the intercession of the viators. The man who not only
attends the Viatory, but listens to the viator, will find the Way of Harmony greatly smoothed. If two farmers are bringing their wagons to market, which arrives sooner? The one who must drag his
cart through the mud of the North Road, or who glides across the smooth South Road? So it is with the Way of Harmony. Foulque may not achieve Harmony himself, but his example, if it brings one more
of you to the Viatory, nonetheless supports the First Doctrine by bringing other lives to Harmony.’

Sleech nodded in satisfaction and sat down. After a pause, Lady Jilka responded: ‘Well said, sir,’ and applauded politely.

Meanwhile Foulque was dragged up the steps – no easy task in view of his bulk – with the noose around his neck. Lord Thaume, Darrien and several of the guards pulled with coordinated
vigour on the rope, and Foulque was hauled aloft. The opportunity to offer any response to Sleech’s conclusions was for ever lost.

Lord Thaume stepped down from the platform and walked over to Arren and Eilla. ‘This is a disagreeable affair,’ he said. ‘Arren, your conduct has been foolish and you are
fortunate matters have ended so well. If you wish to say your farewells to Eilla you must do so this afternoon. Tomorrow we march north.’

3

Arren led Eilla back to Lord Thaume’s castle and they slipped into the Pleasaunce, the cultivated wilderness abutting the West Walls which was enclosed and reserved
for the use of Lord Thaume and his family. Eilla was silent during the walk and Arren was disinclined to break her reverie.

Inside the Pleasaunce she began to show a little more animation. ‘I like it here,’ she said with a weak smile.