The King's Daughter (4 page)

“Now,” the judge said, suddenly all business. “The manor in question, known as—” He scanned his notes. “What’s its name, Master Powys?”

Powys jerked halfway to standing. “Prittlewell, Your Honor.” He sat and glanced at Carlos with a confident little smile that said: Our title deed is good. We’ll win.

“Prittlewell, yes,” the judge said. “In the borough of—” Powys jerked up again. “Rochford, Your Honor. By the sea.” And sat.

“And the manor is comprised of … ah, yes.” This time the judge had found the information in his notes. “Comprised of two hundred and ten acres of arable land and meadow,” he read aloud, “and one hundred and twenty of heath. A windmill and a horse mill. Twenty-one farming tenants, of which eight have freehold tenure and thirteen have leasehold tenure. The demesne, I see, is chiefly marshland.” He peered down at Carlos. “Good for livestock farming, that,” he said. He smiled. “And horses.”

Carlos liked this judge. They saw things the same way. After studying the fine horseflesh bred and raised on the marshes, Carlos had already planned to expand in that area. Horses, he knew.

“Well, then,” the judge said, “on to the matter of the plaintiff’s claim to the manor.” He looked hard at the opposing lawyer, Sydenham. So did Carlos. Something in Syden-ham’s bearing put Carlos on his guard. The man was past the vigor of youth, not strong-looking, not particularly fiery in aspect despite his red hair. In fact, the languid ease with which he sat, absently flicking a trace of dirt from his green satin sleeve, gave him a sheen of effeminacy. But Carlos sensed that it was, indeed, only a sheen.

The judge’s stern look deepened into something resembling contempt. “The plaintiff claims title to Prittlewell by authority of a writ from the Court of Augmentations. Is that correct?”

“The manor was part of the estate of the late Duke of Somerset, Your Honor,” Sydenham said. “It was forfeited to the Crown at Somerset’s attainder, then was deeded to my client in socage tenure.”

“Quite,” the judge sniffed. “Indeed, I note before me a paper drawn up by a clerk of that august body. However, this
document”
—he sneered the word as if he were dignifying a notorious whore with the title of “lady"—"bears no date, Master Sydenham.” He lifted the paper by a corner as if it gave off a foul odor. “It bears no witnesses’ signatures. It bears no description of the manor. It bears no description of the manor’s whereabouts. Can it, in all conscience, be called fit to bear this court’s scrutiny?”

Sydenham opened his mouth to speak.

“Or even,” the judge boomed suddenly, “to bear our interest?”

The court hushed.

“I can only reiterate, Your Honor,” said Sydenham, “that the document does issue from Her Majesty’s Court of Augmentations at Westminster.”

“Master Sydenham, farts and belches also issue from the Court of Augmentations at Westminster, but I do not acknowledge them as jurisprudence!”

Sydenham looked down.

“Therefore …” the judge said, shoving the papers aside.

Carlos felt a ripple of hope. Was this victory?
Wait,
he told himself.

“… as I can find no claims outstanding against the defendant’s lordship of this manor …”

Madre de Dios, it is true. The judge is ruling in my favor!

“… and as I can see no other impediments to the defendant’s lordship of the manor—”

“I beg pardon, Your Honor,” Sydenham broke in. “But if it please the court, there is a witness I should like to call.”

The judge looked annoyed. “A witness?”

“I heartily concur with Your Honor’s astute appraisal of the writ,” Sydenham said. “It was presented by my predecessor, Lord Grenville’s former solicitor. However, new evidence has come to my attention that warrants this court’s notice.”

Carlos watched Sydenham in suspicion. The change of solicitors was true enough. Lord Grenville had got rid of the last one a few weeks ago, and this man Sydenham had stepped into the breach. But Carlos now had the uncomfortable feeling that Sydenham had just been waiting for his predecessor’s tactic to be played out before launching his own fresh assault.

Powys leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, I must protest. What need is there to drag in a witness when the plaintiff’s claim to the manor has been dismissed outright?”

Before the judge could respond, Sydenham spoke, fixing his pale blue eyes almost threateningly on the judge. “I humbly request that you allow me to proceed, Your Honor. Her Majesty Queen Mary, whose interest in seeing justice done throughout her realm has extended to Your Honor’s own exemplary appointment, would surely wish it.”

The judge cast a baleful eye on Sydenham. “Very well, sir,” he said. “In the interest of the Queen’s justice.” He sat back with a sigh that showed he was exasperated but willing. “Call your witness.”

The witness was a thin, stooped, bald man. He was sworn in. George Hoby, farmer, leasehold tenant on the manor of Dindale. Sydenham pointed out to the court that Dindale was adjacent to Prittlewell.

Powys frowned at Carlos and whispered, “What’s he here for?”

Carlos shrugged his ignorance.

Sydenham smiled at the witness. Hoby responded with a deferential nod. He did not look comfortable, but neither did he seem intimidated. “Master Hoby,” Sydenham began, “will you tell this court of your actions on the afternoon of October second of this year?”

Hoby cleared his throat. “Took a pig to market. Came home for dinner. Went to the beach with Susan.”

“And Susan is …?”

“My granddaughter. She’ll be six come Lamas Day.”

“And what occurred on your way to the beach?”

“Came upon the new lord of Prittlewell. The Spanish lord, yonder,” Hoby said, pointing at Carlos.

“Master Valverde,” Sydenham clarified for the court. “And what did Master Valverde say to you?”

“Not much. He were busy putting up a hedge fence. It cut off the path to the beach. He said Susan and me should take the other path, the one round Pollard’s hazel grove.”

“So the path he told you to take passes through Dindale, not through Prittlewell?” Sydenham emphasized.

“Aye. Past Pollard’s marsh. Path used to be all bog, but the Spanish lord’s drained it all thereabouts for horse pasture. He said the path through Pollard’s were a fair route now. Quicker, too, he said. So Susan and me, we went round that way.”

“Now, Master Hoby, how long have you been accustomed to using the first path, the path through Prittlewell, to get to the beach?”

“Oh, time out of mind.” Hoby pulled his ear, thinking. “At Susan’s age I stumped along it with my grandfar’s pa.”

Sydenham turned to the judge. “In point of fact, Your Honor, Master Hoby’s family has enjoyed ancient, customaryrights of access to the beach via the path through Prittlewell. Master Hoby’s ancestor, one Cuthbert Hoby, was verderer of the Dindale and Prittlewell forests during the reign of King Henry the Fourth. In recognition of Cuthbert Hoby’s service in saving the King’s life, the King granted the post of verderer to Hoby’s direct descendants in perpetuity.”

“Saving the King’s life?” the judge asked, intrigued.

“I believe the circumstance was an attack from a boar, Your Honor,” Sydenham explained. “I have here an affidavit setting forth the particulars"—he glanced up and added smoothly—"dated and witnessed.”

The judge perused the affidavit and appeared satisfied. “But, Master Sydenham, what has this event of some hundred and fifty years ago to do with the case before this court?”

“Your Honor, for many generations the residents of Dindale have taken the path through Prittlewell to collect sand.”

“Sand?” The judge turned to Hoby. “Is that what you were after that day? Sand?”

“Oh, aye, Your Worship.”

“For what purpose?”

“Susan’s rabbit hutch. She’s a good girl with rabbits, our Susan is,” Hoby added proudly.

“But Master Valverde stopped you, did he not?” Sydenham said, bringing Hoby’s attention back to the important fact.

“Aye. Pointed out the other path. ‘Twere quicker, too, just like he said.”

“But he did impede you from taking the customary path,” Sydenham emphasized sternly.

Hoby shrugged. “Aye.”

Carlos threw Powys a look of concern. What was all this about? But Powys ignored him, frowning in concentration as he followed Sydenham’s line of questioning.

“Now, Master Hoby,” Sydenham went on. “Yesterday you made a formal complaint to Master Valverde about this matter, did you not?”

“Aye.”

“Would you tell the court?”

“He were in the alehouse. I told him he should not have"—he paused to find the word—"impeded me from taking the path.”

Powys frowned at Carlos. “You didn’t tell me this,” he whispered. Carlos bristled. Was he supposed to run to a lawyer every time an old man spoke nonsense in an alehouse? “Well,” Powys growled, “Sydenham sent him to complain. I can smell it.”

Sydenham continued his questioning. “And was there a witness when you made your complaint?”

“Aye. My neighbor, Roger Pollard.”

“And what answer did Master Valverde give?”

“He said ‘twere easier both for his pasture and my Susan if we used the other path.”

“So he refused to redress the wrong he had done you?”

Hoby appeared reluctant to go so far. But he grunted, “Aye.”

Sydenham told Hoby he was excused. Hoby walked away, touching his cap to Lord Grenville. Sydenham lifted a heavy volume and began to read aloud. The language was Norman French. Carlos could follow none of it. “What’s he saying?” he whispered.

“An ancient statute,” Powys murmured. “Basically, if a landlord impedes the progress of a verderer of the Crown’s forest through a customary right of way, and if, after receiving complaint by the offended party, the landlord willfully continues to impede, the landlord shall forfeit his property to the Crown.”

Carlos understood imperfectly this rush of English words against Sydenham’s droning in French. But one word hit him like a cannon shot. Forfeit.

“But Master Sydenham,” the judge said with a frown, “there has not been forest in Dindale for over fifty years. And the witness has just told us the child only wanted sand for a rabbit hutch.”

Sydenham put down the volume. “Your Honor, Master Hoby and his family, as direct descendants of Cuthbert Hoby, hold the rights of verderers of the Crown. And a verderer, as you know, is responsible for maintaining order in all manner of trespasses of the forest, of vert and venison.”

The point dawned on the judge. “And rabbits,” he acknowledged grudgingly.

“Brilliant,” Powys murmured in spite of himself.

Carlos glared at his lawyer. “Do something,” he whispered fiercely.

The admonition seemed to rouse Powys. He stood suddenly. “Your Honor, I must vehemently protest this abuse of court procedure. Earlier, the plaintiff was claiming with his writ that my client did not legally own the manor. Now, suddenly, he claims that my client does own the manor but must forfeit it. This shift in parameters of the case is insupportable!”

“But,” Sydenham quickly spoke up, “Your Honor wisely saw fit to discredit the former parameters because of the flawed writ.”

The judge frowned. “Still, Master Powys has a point that—”

“Your Honor,” Sydenham interrupted smoothly. He lifted a paper. “I have a writ of mandamus to present.”

“Good God,” Powys whispered in amazement. Wide-eyed, he turned to Carlos. “Mandamus. From the Queen’s own hand.”

“I trust Your Honor will find it satisfactory in execution,” Sydenham said, giving the Queen’s writ, and the volume whose statute he had cited, to the clerk. The clerk carried them to the judge. The judge took the paper and looked at the Queen’s handwriting with unabashed awe. “This writ,” Sydenham went on, “gives title to my client, Lord Anthony Grenville, of all land forfeited to the Crown in this shire. By the events you have just heard related, the manor of Prittlewell is forfeit. It must therefore become the property of my client.”

The judge stared at the evidence, clearly daunted. The court waited. Carlos’s heart thudded in his chest. Something terrible had occurred, but what? The sick feeling of panic was alien to him, disorienting. He sensed only that he had taken a fatal blow. And that the lawyer, Sydenham, had delivered it.

The judge sighed deeply. His shoulders sagged. He put down the paper and sat back, a man rendered powerless.

Carlos knew his land was lost.

When the verdict finally came from the judge’s mouth Carlos barely listened. His eyes were fixed on Sydenham. Sydenham glanced over at him, then turned back to the judge. But Carlos had recognized something in the look. He had seen the same nonchalance in the eyes of a German Prince-Bishop he had once fought for. Following a murderous skirmish before a fortified town, the Prince had sat his horse on a safe mound, gazing over the strewn corpses of his own troops. “Eighty,” the Prince had said. But it was not the dead men he was counting, only yards of terrain gained in the brutal advance. Sydenham’s glance at Carlos had made the same cold-blooded reckoning.

The judge rose. The court rose. The judge left through a side door. The clerk rustled papers together. Grenville got to his feet, bestowed a smile on Sydenham that said he had expected no less, and strode out of the court. Sydenham moved toward the clerk to retrieve his voice at his shoulder, a drone of apology—the words, to Carlos, a senseless mumble. Then Powys, too, walked out.

Carlos rose, his eyes still locked on Sydenham. Sydenham had killed him. Carlos knew that much: he was still standing, but Sydenham had killed him. And now Sydenham was chatting with the clerk and laughing. A polished laugh, like a woman’s. There was a pain inside Carlos’s head like alongbow too tightly strung. It snapped. He started toward Sydenham.

Sydenham turned and saw him coming, and the mirth drained from his face. He stepped backward toward his table, the backs of his thighs hitting the tabletop. Carlos kept on walking, stalking. The bailiff at the back of the room shouted to Carlos, “Hoy!” Then, to his two men, “Stop him!”

One of the bailiff’s men thrust himself between Carlos and Sydenham as a shield. All that registered in Carlos’s mind was that the man was smaller and afraid. He grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s jerkin at his chest and shoved him aside like a scarecrow. The man fell, then scrambled away. Carlos was now only an arm’s length from Sydenham. Sydenham, trapped by the table, groped behind him for balance, knocking books and papers off the table.