Lytten looked at the slender figure and crooked his finger to summon him.
‘You seem afraid, young man.’
Jay nodded.
‘I believe I made you a little ill-disciplined. Would you agree?’
Jay said nothing.
‘I made you so for a reason. Use my gifts. Do not try to be a second-rate Gontal, but speak as you feel. Remember, your job is to convince me, not anyone else, and I really don’t care for extraneous literary allusion. If I have to sit through another speech as dull as that one, I will conclude that I have created the most boring world that could ever exist, and will erase it and start again. It is your job to redeem this place. Do you understand?’
‘No, Majesty.’
‘Get to the point. Speak of the world and of people and deeds. Not of books and precedents and quotations. Make your learning serve your heart, not the other way around. Be yourself, dear boy. Use what you know.’
Jay bowed and faced the crowd. He took a deep breath and began.
‘People of Willdon,’ Jay began conventionally enough, ‘you have heard Scholar Gontal deliver a fine discourse, as it should be delivered. He is a great scholar, intelligent and learned. I am not. I cannot deliver my discourse with the power that he can summon. I will not pronounce in the correct forms, with the proper weightings and with an impeccable structure. I can only speak the truth, simply and directly. I must confine myself to what happened, and to what I know.
‘So let me tell you plainly that he is wrong when he says that Pamarchon is innocent, Catherine guilty. You noted, I am sure, that Scholar Gontal said little to defend Pamarchon. He briefly told you that he was innocent, but his main point was to insist that this was only because Catherine is guilty. That was his entire case. He besmirched the reputation of both.
‘I do not accept his conclusion or his method. I will do the opposite, and defend Catherine by defending Pamarchon also. I ask you to decide that both are innocent.’
He turned round briefly to see what the reaction was so far. Rosalind winked at him supportively; the spirit on the tomb nodded, as if in approval, encouraging him to continue. Jay tried to keep them in mind and not Henary, who he was sure would be horrified by his approach.
‘Let me start by speaking in favour of the man I am supposed to be accusing. Pamarchon, the outlaw, the bandit, the murderer. I have spent several days with him, and seen him with many people. He rules his band with justice and care; he takes pains not to abuse those he lives near. His followers are with him out of love, not fear. He shows no man violence and no woman indignity. Think back to the days before his fall. Did he not intervene to cool the wrath of his uncle? Is that the behaviour of a violent murderer? Was there anything, any deed or statement, which made you think him capable of such a crime? If there is, then speak.’
No one did, fortunately. It was a risk, asking an audience for a reaction and staking all on getting the right one. If Gontal had had more time to prepare his followers, Jay’s entire strategy could have collapsed then and there. Still, his luck held.
‘I see that I have had some success in damaging my own case. For I have strengthened the case against Catherine, and it is not a bad case at all. Did she love her husband? Possibly not, but then nor did anyone else. Did she move quickly to take control of Willdon on his death? Most certainly. Does she have the intelligence to do something like this? Very definitely. She is a woman of great resource, courage and daring. You know this, you who know her better than I do.
‘Cruelty cannot be hidden. It does not well up once and then go away for ever, never to be seen again. A woman that cruel, that violent, that cunning would have such traits deep in her soul. They would show themselves again and again, in a word, a deed, a thought. They would have to, for “cruelty owns the soul, and bends men to its will”.
‘Where is that cruelty? In what way has the Lady of Willdon shown it? In her punishments of transgressors? I think not; she is known for her mercy. In her rapacity over taxes? She is known for her generosity. What about the way she treats those who work for her? She is greatly loved and respected, is she not? So where does this cruel beast linger? Tell me who has ever glimpsed its claws, or been stung by its fangs.
‘No. We must search elsewhere to understand the death of Thenald. Listen to me, and I will tell you where to direct your gaze.
‘Two days ago, I was summoned to the bedside of Callan, son of Perel, forester of Willdon, familiar to many here. He was on his deathbed, and I was asked to take his story. I am not allowed to tell you what he said, you all know this. However, I intend to do so now, because Callan urged me to use what he had said at the proper time. It is not something I do lightly, but I believe custom should serve the truth, not obscure it. You may judge whether I have acted correctly when I am finished.
‘I met Callan when I was eleven; he was a soldier then, and took me to Ossenfud. This was shortly before the death of Thenald. When he delivered me to Ossenfud, he said he was going straight back home to Willdon. Not long after, Thenald died and, curiously, Callan hurried back to his barracks and signed on for another term of service, even though he hated the life of a soldier, even though he missed his forest. He did not return to his home for three years.
‘When I took his story, he told me he left Willdon out of fear. He was afraid of being condemned for the murder of the Lord of Willdon.’
A nicely timed pause here. Jay gave the audience a moment to absorb his words. Many knew Callan and were shocked by what he had said.
‘It was Callan’s knife that had inflicted the wounds, his knife that cut Thenald’s throat and stopped his heart. It had happened in a part of the forest where he lived. All knew that Callan had hated Thenald for the reckless way he was chopping down trees without thought or caution, for the cruel way he exploited the laws.
‘He had the chance to kill, he had a reason, and the weapon was his. He told me that he pulled the knife from the body, wiped it clean, and returned to the army until he judged it was safe. He never spoke of it to anyone.
‘Here it is. This is the knife which killed Thenald.’
Jay took out the knife and held it aloft, then walked round the circle. All gazed transfixed at it, and at him. Many nodded in recognition as Jay then placed it at the base of the altar.
‘It would be easy for me to win my case by saying that Callan had murdered Thenald and confessed on his deathbed. You would take my word for it, as I am bound by the story-taker’s oath. There is no one to contradict me. I will not say it; Callan was a good man, and my friend, and I will not tarnish his memory by accusing him of a crime he did not commit. Too many have suffered that already.
‘So I say that Callan pulled the knife out of Thenald’s heart, but he had not thrust it in. Who did, then? Was it Pamarchon? No, Callan said, may he forgive me. I saw him an hour later, coming back to the house from an entirely different direction. He could not possibly have done it. Was it Catherine? This was no woman’s crime, he said. Only a strong man could have driven that into Thenald’s chest. Then who? Was it... Scholar Gontal, perhaps?’