Beloved Enemy (50 page)

“No, I do not have the right of high justice, the power of life and death over my people,” de Fiennes was saying in response to some question of Henry’s. “That belongs to the provost in York. But I can administer floggings and imprisonment as I deem necessary.”

“In truth, the law in these parts is a veritable jumble,” said the priest. “The royal—”

“But much improved since Your Majesty came to the throne close to three years ago,” de Fiennes added hastily. “Before that lawlessness abounded everywhere—”

“As I was about to say, my lord, the royal sheriffs have been among the worst offenders,” said the Cistercian, oblivious to de Fiennes’s warning glance.

“Unhappily, there is still much to be done.” De Fiennes glared at the priest.

“Despite my reforms, it is the same in many parts of England,” Henry said, adding in an undertone to Thomas, “Royal sheriffs in York. Don’t forget.” He nodded at de Fiennes. “Criminals go unpunished, innocent men are hanged. It will simply take more time to put these matters to rights. In my mind, there is only one way to bring order out of this chaos: ultimately one standard of law must apply everywhere.”

De Fiennes gave an incredulous laugh. “A law common to all men? Forgive me, Sire, but that is impossible. Why, the law often differs from village to village! Here, for example, we follow the customs of Normandy. In other parts of Yorkshire you will find traces of the old Danelaw, and not ten leagues away they follow yet another tradition.”

“A daunting task, I agree, and change will hardly occur overnight, but by the end of my reign you will see sweeping changes in the law, mark my words.”

Eleanor smiled to herself. Exactly the sort of challenge Henry thrived on. The clerk, she noted, had taken it all down.

By the time the bells had rung for Sext, the steward had produced a meager repast of dried apples, ale, hard wheaten loaves that had already begun to mold, soft white cheese, and cold boiled mutton. Eleanor forced herself to eat; there was no telling when the next meal might be forthcoming. Henry ate heartily, indifferent as usual to what went into his belly; Thomas, after one look, disdained all food, asking only for well water.

By the time they finished eating, the size of the crowd had doubled. De Fiennes’s men were still feeding the royal party and Henry, impatient as ever, suggested they start the trials.

The first three cases were commonplace and the crowd grew restive. The fourth case involved a rape. The crowd immediately perked up. A local knight paraded his buxom, teary-eyed daughter before the court.

“This girl claims to have been a virgin before being raped by this monk from Fountains Abbey,” de Fiennes said to Henry. He pointed to the young brother who stood next to the old priest. “The monk says she is lying.”

“The monk must be handed over to the local abbot,” Thomas said, glancing at the priest. “He cannot be tried by a lay court.”

“The monk is not yet on trial, my lord chancellor,” said de Fiennes.

Henry frowned. “Indeed, why not?”

“Well, it must be determined first if the girl speaks the truth. The father says that because she has been soiled he will not be able to make a suitable marriage for her. He demands recompense from the abbey because the monk has violated her.”

“There is no proof of that,” the priest said quickly.

“This surely is no light matter,” Henry said. “If the monk were an ordinary man he could be castrated and even blinded for raping a virgin.”

De Fiennes’s lip curled. “Before the ecclesiastical court, he will get off with a penance and mayhap a flogging.”

“That is hardly justice.” Henry gave Thomas a hard look. “If it is a lay crime he has committed, he should pay the same penalty.”

“I must contradict you, Sire,” Thomas replied with heat in his voice. “ ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God—’ ”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that. Don’t preach at me. But that is not justice, Thomas, and well you know it.”

Eleanor looked from one man to the other. For an instant there was an unaccustomed tension between them she had not seen before. Henry broke it with an outward shrug.

“All right. The monk is not on trial here so we waste time. How will the maid prove she is telling the truth?”

“She will carry a bar of heated iron for three paces before witnesses. If, at the end of three days, the burn is no more than half the size of a walnut she will be accused of bearing false witness.”

Eleanor was outraged. “Has a midwife examined her? This is barbaric.” She had no right to speak at this court but could not keep silent.

“That has been done, Madam,” said de Fiennes. “That she is no longer a virgin has been verified, but the girl may be protecting the real culprit by accusing this monk.”

What reason would the girl have to wrongly accuse the monk? Eleanor wondered, but dared not protest further.

When the bar of hot iron was placed in the girl’s hand she ran three paces, screamed, then dropped the bar and fell to the ground in a swoon. Her father picked her up and carried her off toward the village. The monk had a sly look on his face. Eleanor felt sick to her stomach. She fervently hoped that the burn was the size of at least three walnuts, thus proving her innocent.

The fifth case involved three mercenary soldiers said to have invaded a large neighboring farm, stolen a horse, a pig, and several chickens, insulted the women, and severely beaten the farmer and his son. One of the men was caught while two escaped. The captured man, his hands tied behind him, vehemently protested his innocence.

“Pure and guiltless indeed,” said de Fiennes with a sneer. “The unvarying plea of the accused.”

“Perhaps he is telling the truth,” Henry said.

“Not likely. My men found him in the forest in company with the other brigands,” said de Fiennes. “It is his misfortune that he was caught and they escaped.”

“I don’t deny these men are my comrades,” the accused cried. “In truth, I was waiting for them. I knew they had gone into the village for food but I did not go with them, nor did I know what they had in mind.”

“But you know where they’re hiding, I’ll wager,” de Fiennes said.

The man shook his head, his eyes darting anxiously from Henry to de Fiennes. It was obvious to Eleanor he was refusing to betray the lair of his comrades, but whether he was guilty of the crime as charged she could not be sure.

“Ordeal by water will determine the truth or falsehood of what this rogue says, then a severe flogging should produce the whereabouts of his accomplices.” De Fiennes summoned a guard. “Prepare the cask.”

“Such practices prove nothing,” said Henry. “How can the size of a scar prove whether someone is lying? Is the water to know whether this man is guilty or not?”

At his words a ripple of interest stirred the crowd of onlookers. De Fiennes looked shocked. “But Divine punishment will be meted out to the perjurer. It is well known.”

“It is blasphemous to suggest otherwise,” said the Cistercian priest, crossing himself. “It is how God makes His will known to us. Like nobles fighting in single combat to prove their guilt or innocence.”

“In the belief that God will grant the decision to the one whose cause is just.” Henry shook his head in disgust. “Another foolish custom I deplore.”

A huge cask near the tree was filled with water, a wooden board set across its top. As a child, Eleanor had once witnessed an ordeal by water, a custom now fallen into disuse, in Poitou at least, for the very reasons Henry had given. The accused was bound with a rope attached to his shoulders and dumped into the cask. If innocent he was supposed to sink; if guilty he would float. Of course by the time he was hauled up he was often more dead than alive so his proven innocence did him little good. This had been the case in Poitiers.

Two guards started to bind the man with rope; the priest came forward with his box of relics to administer the oath of innocence. Henry rose slowly to his feet.

“Wait! There must be a better method to determine the guilt of this man, one closer to the Divine will. As I recall, the Saxons had a way …” He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.

Slowly he walked over to the crowd who fell back at his approach. “You, you, and you,” he said at length, pointing at three men. He turned and singled out four more, then pushed his way into the crowd and indicated five others, all of different ages. “Twelve of you—the number of the Apostles as well as the tribes of Israel—should be enough.” He smiled at the priest. “It was enough for Our Lord. Come with me.”

The bewildered men followed him to a place on the far side of the tree.

“Stay there, don’t move,” Henry said. “Now, bring this man here and let him stand thus—” he indicated a place in front of de Fiennes. The accused was led to the spot Henry indicated. “Good, good.” He reflected again, frowning.

Eleanor watched both de Fiennes and the priest turn rigid with disapproval at this variation in custom. Thomas looked interested. What in heaven’s name was Henry up to? Some old Saxon custom not used since before the Conquest? In the midst of a tense silence Eleanor felt a stir of excitement, aware that the crowd felt it too, as if everyone present were going to witness a startling event.

“All right,” Henry said at last, “bring forward the farmer and his son who were robbed and beaten, the women who were insulted, and anyone else who claims to have been wronged by these mercenaries.”

“Majesty, at the risk of offending you, I strongly protest this grave departure from tradition,” said de Fiennes, no longer able to contain his outrage. “This contravenes the law of both God and man. My own guards saw this man with his comrades before they escaped. The others had the stolen chickens and pig in their arms. This man was holding the horse’s headstall!”

“They had just that moment put the rope in my hands!” the accused shouted.

“Silence.” One of the guards gave him a shove and he fell to the ground. The guard hauled him roughly to his feet.

“As my lord de Fiennes has said, this goes against all custom and violates God’s law as well,” the priest said, sputtering in his anger. “My lord chancellor, it is not our place to—can you not explain matters to the king?”

Thomas looked from the priest to Henry. “He has a point, Sire. After all, this
is
their territory and we but trespass here. Would it not be best to let them manage affairs in their own way?”

It was indeed a valid point. Eleanor saw Henry hesitate. She did not know why but she was convinced he must not stray from the path he trod.

“Henry,” she called out. “If customs forever remain the same, how can England change its laws?”

It was the support he needed. “No, Thomas, in this instance I must override all of you. What the queen says is true, but there is another, more important, point to be made. Man has the ability to reason, to judge right from wrong. Is not this God-given? Surely Our Lord expects us to use His gift so He does not have to directly intervene at every turn.”

Henry surveyed the twelve men. “Are any of you related to this man by blood or marriage? Do any have aught to gain if this man prove either innocent or guilty?”

They all shook their heads.

“Do you all swear to Our Heavenly Father that you speak the truth?”

They all swore that they did.

“Then let us proceed. Now, I may ask questions of the relevant parties, your lord will ask questions, and my chancellor may ask a few. When the questions and answers are complete, you will discuss the matter among yourselves and pass judgment, although the final decision, of course, rests with your lord. Do you understand?” He impatiently eyed the group, who appeared dumbfounded. “On the evidence presented you will determine if the accused lies or speaks the truth, is that quite clear?”

“It is clear to me,” said one of the men.

“Good. You will be the spokesman for the group. Let us begin.”

Eleanor found herself spellbound by what was happening. The farm women, the farmer and his son, the Lord de Fiennes’s men were all brought before the court and interrogated. It soon became clear that the man was telling the truth. All the farm people denied ever having seen the accused on their property; only the guards gave incriminating evidence, having caught him with his comrades in the forest.

The twelve men talked together for only a few moments.

“We are ready to pronounce judgment,” said the spokesman to Henry.

“Are you all in agreement?”

“We are.”

“How do you find?”

“We find he is telling the truth.”

Henry turned to de Fiennes. “You are the arbiter of justice here, my lord. What say you to this verdict?”

De Fiennes, his nose clearly out of joint, gave a reluctant nod. “The man is innocent. Untie him—but he must still tell us where his comrades are hidden.”

The accused burst into tears and fell to his knees in front of Henry.

“Oh, my lord, Sire, I am your man forever. As God is my witness, I will be your grateful servant until my death.”

“God’s eyes, get up, man, no need for such a display,” Henry said in a gruff voice, clearly embarrassed. “And don’t tamper with your good fortune,” he added softly. “Tell what you know.”

The accused nodded and was led off by de Fiennes’s guards.

Within moments the crowd had surrounded Henry, doffing their caps, even daring to touch him with a kind of shy reverence. Their affection and respect was palpable.

“Our king executes swift justice with a strong hand,” Eleanor heard a fervent voice say. “May God bless and keep him for many a long year.”

It was the very highest praise. Tears filled her eyes; her heart swelled with love and pride.

The moment—afternoon sun glinting through the burnished leaves of the stately oak; Henry, looking absurdly young, enveloped by the adoring throng—was etched in her mind like a pen stroke on parchment, transcending time and place.

De Fiennes had a sullen look on his face. Eleanor was sure he disapproved of the whole innovative procedure. Not that it mattered. Instinct told her that what she had witnessed today—no, not merely witnessed, but contributed to—however crudely done, would one day transform the realm.