The Wicked and the Just (16 page)

If John de Havering walked through that door right now, I'd spit on him just to see the look on this shrill harridan's face.

She's naming borough and Crown officials, and she gives me such an eyestab that I echo them after her in as frosty a tone as I dare. Because my father may be a ham-handed oaf, but I'll not have it said that he raised a lackwit who is not clever and brave enough to hoodwink a shrew with vaporheaded compliance.

 

Sacks appear one by one in our shed. They're full of milled barley and wheat and oats. I ask my father about them. He says the millers give him grain as part of his office of charge.

The millers must like him mightily if they gave up a share of the thumb's depth they've wrung from everyone else.

 

 

I
T
darkens earlier now that the season has changed. Mayhap the millers will be more accommodating, now that it's harder to be seen.

Knuckles against the door. And wait.

The Porth Mawr miller peers out. “You again.”

Hold up the sack without a word.

He puts out his hand for the penny, for my se'ennight's worth of sweat.

Jab the coin into his hand.

The miller leaves the door ajar while he clunks about within. Then he thrusts out the sack, and it sways in his meaty grip like a wrung-neck chicken.

The sack is light. As if it's empty. Peek in. There's barely a dusting.

“Th-this isn't half what my penny brings.” My voice is low and raw.

The miller spits. “It's what your penny brings now, after that worthless harvest. What will you do, call the Watch?” He laughs, ugly. “Off with you.”

Raise my voice. “Give me my due.”

“God rot your filthy soul, you ungrateful—”

Something hits my back hard and I'm pushed into the mill and harsh commands echo and feet scuffle in straw and my sack gets ripped from my hand and I'm face-first against the wall, gasping for breath.

A forearm across my shoulders and a hand at my lower back hold me pinned. Limewashed wattles gouge my cheek.

“Right, then, miller. Is this girl a burgess, pray tell, or are you trading on an unlawful day? And after sundown?” A cough of laughter. “Even better.”

The arm at my shoulders pivots and a hand reaches beneath my underarm and cups my tit. Hot breath dampens my ear. Nipple gets pinched. Rubbed.

“What else can I amerce you for?” Heavy bootsteps clump across the room. “Will I find sawdust in these sacks?”

Something smashes. The miller cries out in dismay. Then there's a heavy sound, like a quartermeasure sack hitting the floor, and laughter. Several men, including the one pinning me.

The miller will get a fine. English will give me irons and time on the gatehouse floor. Or worse.

“I've done naught wrong,” the miller says, but his voice quavers beneath a try at strength.

More laughter. Whoever's holding me rubs his groin against my backside, slow and deliberate. My hipbones grind into the wattle. He grunts softly.

“I believe I'll let the constable decide what you've done. He'll taste this flour and—”

“Saints, this sack of flour has opened, my lord.” The miller's voice is shaky. “I have no use for it. Why do you not, er, dispose of it for me? I would be in your debt.”

Grip stray strands of wattle. Press my forehead against the wall. His grunting grows louder and the hand on my tit squeezes and rubs.

“Come. This mill is in order. Except for that open sack. Leverdon, take it to my shed.”

Wince at one last grind of hips as he rocks away. Footsteps echo, and there's a whuffle of door.

“Whore, this is your fault! Show your face here again and I'll make you sorry!”

The miller seizes my collar and arm, gripping so tightly I cry out. Stumble out the door as he throws me.

Land, hard, on rocky ground. Lie crumpled there a long moment. Then struggle up and limp home.

Full dark now. Empty belly. Empty hands.

 

Gruffydd pushes roughly through the steading's doorway. “Dafydd's with me. Don't even start, hear?”

Bristle at my little brother ere I get a look at Dafydd. His face is raw and bruised, and he limps inside while Gruffydd hovers at the curtain, peering out.

Blink and blink and finally find my voice. “Wh-what happened?”

“I was well met last night,” Dafydd growls. “Hauled out of bed and cudgeled something fierce. My door kicked in. My whole place sacked. Thatch everywhere.”

“Jesu, why?”

Dafydd smirks. “My prospective neighbors within the walls wish to inform me that continuing to petition the English king for a burgage in Caernarvon is an endeavor to be conducted at my peril.”

Fight to stay calm. Know not what else he expected. Especially after what happened at county court.

“You cannot stay.” Say it kindly, but brooking no refusal. “They watch this place. Because of Da. They'd love an excuse.”

“I'll certes put that in my next petition to the king. ‘Your Grace, mayhap it would interest you to know that the officials who govern in your name visit the sins of the father upon his innocent children.' It'll go right after ‘It troubles me to report that Caernarvon's gatehouse is enchanted. Upon leaving, men are rendered invisible for a fortnight, then turn up fatally beaten. At least, that's what your bailiffs would have you believe.'”

“Please.” Regret my soft words already. Giving Dafydd anything is like oil on fire, and nay is easier said in blade-edged tones. “If they find you here, we'll all
wish
for time on the gatehouse floor.”

Dafydd moves to rise, but Gruffydd at the doorway gestures him down.

“Nothing yet,” Gruffydd reports. “Mayhap we lost them. That's enough, Gwen. Now's not the time.”

Fold my arms. “Oh, come now, it's not the first time the burgesses thrashed him, is it? Nor will it be the last. And I've no liking for this trick—”

“Gwenhwyfar.” Gruffydd's voice is low and fierce. He's angled in the doorway like a beast in the furze. “Enough.”

They're both muddy to the knees and covered in brush. Tense like foxes at the horn. Neither of them is smug.

This is not a trick.

Let out a long breath and summon brook-naught words, but one sidelong look at Dafydd and my voice betrays me with its catch. “The English will not tolerate your antics forever.”

Dafydd straightens. “So be it. It's unlawful, what they're doing, and someone has to stand against them or the king will never know.”

It makes no sense to stand when it will change nothing.

Gruffydd leans inside, eyes wild. “Go. Now. They're coming up the hill.”

Dafydd runs a hand down my cheek ere I can pull away. His touch is warm and gentle, curse him.

By the time English cudgel into my house, Dafydd is gone into the greenwood while Gruffydd and I stand elbow to elbow, bracing to be questioned.

 

 

M
Y FATHER
is having winter firewood loaded into our rearyard. Cartload after cartload, and all I can hear is clumping hooves and blasphemy and the clatter of wood on wood.

I have never made a more crooked seam, not even ere the age of reason.

They must be quieter.

I stomp through the hall and into the rearyard to make them. The back door rattles on its leather hinges when I kick it open.

It's
him
. Of course it is. The one who
looks.
The one I made study his lessons, right in the middle of High Street.

He's chopping a massive heap of wood. With one smooth swing of his ax, he splits a piece, then reaches for another chunk while rolling the ax behind his shoulder. By the time his ax is upraised, the next piece of wood is on the block and ready for splitting. Again and again, fluid as a carole dance.

The last time we met, he was not sorry. He stood there in the High Street not being sorry for my gown or my convenience or his own brazen behavior in defiance of the king, who asked us to come here to teach them to behave.

Today he will be sorry.

I hook my hands behind my back and saunter toward him, swaying my hips and pushing my chest out. I stand just out of the way and watch him swing the ax up and bring it down.

He glances my way, startles like a cat, then whips his eyes back to his task.

He does not
look.
He
dares
not look.

And there is naught he can do for it.

“G'morn,” I say sweetly.

“Better to you, demoiselle.” He does not break rhythm or turn in my direction.

“What are you called?”

The ax comes down crossways, glancing off the chopping block. As he recovers and hoists the blade onto his shoulder, he mutters, “Gruffydd ap Peredur, demoiselle.”

“Griff-ith,” I repeat in my flattest English way.

He grimaces, shakes his head the smallest bit, then brings the ax whistling down.

I peer at him as if he's a hairy insect in my porridge. Let's see how he finds being looked at.

Under my scrutiny, his cuts become steadily less even and betimes he must chop the same piece twice. Betimes the ax must rest on his shoulder while he fumbles for another piece of wood.

“Begging your pardon, demoiselle,” Griffith says to his chopping block, “but is there something you've come for?”

“Not particularly.” I idle around to his other elbow, all hips and teases of ankle. “I've a right to be in my own yard, do I not?”

He scrubs a wrist over his eyes while the ax weighs down his shoulder. “Right aye, demoiselle.”

I let him chop several more pieces, reveling in every wavering upswing and crooked cleave. One piece he must cut thrice, and he nearly crops a finger doing so.

“One reason we're here is to teach your lot to behave,” I muse. “The king would have it so. And you're always looking at me. It's really quite rude. As if you really haven't studied your lessons at all.”

The ax comes down hard, the blade half-buried in the chopping block. It takes Griffith nearly an Ave to work it free. Once he does, he looses a long breath and begins his rhythm anew.

“There must be some mistake,” he finally mutters. “I've no idea what you're speaking of.”

“Oh, I think you do. You're always looking at me. Now, let's see here. What could the reason
possibly
be?”

Griffith's expression darkens. He grips and regrips the ax, but when he speaks, his voice is quiet and level. “I must get on with my task, demoiselle. By your leave.”

“Mayhap you look at me because you think I'm comely.” I twitch the hem of my gown as if I'm going to lift it.

A look of panic crosses his face and he swipes a chunk of wood, heaves the ax onto his shoulder, brings it down fiercely. Another piece, then another, as though all the demons in Hell are driving him like a mule.

“Do you?” I brush his shoulder with my handkerchief and he leaps as if stung. “You'd best answer.”

“I . . . cannot . . .”

“So you think I'm plain.” I make my voice all warpy like I've been weeping and throw in a stifled little sob for good measure. “I think I'll run into the house crying. My father will doubtless wish to know what's amiss. And he'll look into the yard to see what could possibly—”

“Oh, Christ, no!” Griffith sinks the ax into the chopping block and drops to his knees at my feet. “Demoiselle, please! I beg your pardon! Forgive me!”

I look down on him, right in the eye. And I smile. “Again.”

Griffith closes his eyes, there in the mud on his knees.

Where he belongs.

“I beg your pardon.” His voice is raspy, uneven. “Forgive me.”

“Much better.” It occurs to me to pat his head as though he's Salvo, but instead I angle my hand down in the
free dog
command. “Right, then, on with your task.”

It takes Griffith most of the day to cut the wood. He cannot regain his rhythm. He's too busy glancing at the back door as if it's the gallows.