In the judge’s opinion, they didn’t rate much higher than the tithing, being of the same class. “Summoned by good summoners, were they?”
“Excellent, my lord, and have been to view both the abbey fire and the evidence.”
“There was evidence, then?”
The jury foreman stepped out. “My lord, that dark gentleman there showed us and explained… It was all to do with fingers an’ a trap, very clever it was…”
The judge had turned his attention to Mansur. “A Saracen? And what’s that he’s holding? Some outlandish weapon?”
The foreman pressed on. “Course, the lady had to tell us what he was saying, her bein’ able to jabber the same language as what he does…”
“Speaks Arabic, does she?” The judge’s eyes rested on Adelia. “Probably no more Christian than he is. And they’re witnesses?”
“My lord,” the bishop of Saint Albans said, “the lord Mansur is used by the king as his special investigator…”
“Where does he find them?” the judge asked the sky. And then, “I don’t care if he’s used by the Angel Gabriel. It’s up to the jury here. If they’re satisfied…”
“We are, my lord. Eustace di’n’t do it.”
“Oh, very well.” But the judge was still looking for a loophole. “However, gentlemen of the jury, can you vouch for the good character of this tithing?”
There was a dreadful pause. Toki’s hand went under his tunic and he began scratching like a dog sent mad by fleas.
“We ain’t sure as how they’ve been a-livin’ since their homes was burnt down,” the foreman said cautiously, “but nothin’s known against ’em, not really known like. An’ Will of Glastonbury, that one there, he’s a prize baker.”
The judge sighed. “Then they are quit.” His clerk handed him a scroll and he scribbled a signature on it. “We are obliged to the bishop of Saint Albans for his attendance. Call the next case.”
The next case, a man whose feet were hobbled, was being lifted out of the pound by the usher to face the judge. A new panel of jurors shuffled into the shade of the tree.
The tithing stood where it was for a moment, bemused, before Will stepped forward and proffered a grimy hand to the judge. “Very obliged, my lord.” The usher pushed him away.
Alf was running after the foreman of the departing jury, trying to kiss him.
Will doffed his cap to the bishop, grunted at Mansur and Adelia, and slouched off.
“That’s all the thanks you get,” Rowley said. It was the first time he’d spoken to Adelia today; he’d barely looked at her.
Affectionately, she watched the tithing disappear into the crowd. “A jury,” she said. “King Henry, for these men, for all who are on trial, I thank you.”
“The greatest lawgiver since Solomon,” Rowley said, and then winked. “Mind you, it’s lucrative. But better all the fines and confiscated goods in Henry’s pocket than anyone else’s.”
A clerk was trying for the bishop’s attention. “My lord, you are listed to sit on the Lord of Newcastle’s case. If you’d follow me…”
With a wave of his hand, Rowley was gone.
And that’s how it will be, Adelia thought, no recognition in public, brief moments, impermanence. Still, Allie and I will be happy to opt for that.
Captain Bolt was stamping with impatience. “The king, mistress…”
Adelia took the long basket from Mansur. Mentally, she apologized to the bones on the Tor: You see, Henry is your inheritor after all; look at the justice he has brought to your island.
At the palace, the majordomo led the captain, Adelia, Mansur, and Millie up a beautiful staircase to a long, heavily windowed gallery containing an equally long line of people. Benches had been set for them.
“Petitioners,” Captain Bolt said disgustedly. “How long we going to have to wait? The king wanted to see this lady urgent.”
“The lord king is with the papal legate, mistress,” the majordomo said. “When he’s finished… Oh my God, will you stop that bloody pig shitting on the floor?”
It was a nice floor, tiled with ceramic coats of arms. It was a nice pig, if unstable as to its digestion. The large countrywoman holding it on a lead nodded amiably, lifted it onto her lap, and wiped its bottom with her sleeve.
“Does she have to be here?” the majordomo begged a royal clerk who stood at the door of the receiving room with a scroll in his hand and a writing desk hanging from his neck. Adelia had seen him before; she tried to remember his name.
“All petitioners, the king said,” the clerk told him. “She’s a petitioner. Maybe the pig is.”
“I’ll go and petition a bloody bucket and cloth, then,” the majordomo said bitterly.
Most of the gallery’s occupants, a motley lot, were anxious, their mouths moving as they rehearsed what they would say to the king. Only the countrywoman, with a sangfroid to shame nobility, seemed at ease.
Adelia and Millie took a seat next to her. The open windows of the receiving room where the king was in discussion allowed its occupants’ exchanges to drift along the outside sunny air and through the open windows of the gallery, though only Henry’s voice could be heard clearly. It rasped on the ear at the best of times-and this, obviously, was not a good time.
“I won’t have it, Monseigneur. I’m not going to take out their tongues nor cut off their balls, nor any other part of their anatomy. And I’m certainly not going to execute them.”
The legate’s reply was lower and more controlled. Adelia caught the word “heretics.”
“Heretics? Because they oppose the sale of indulgences? I don’t like the sale of indulgences. I was taught sins were paid for in hell, not by a handful of cash to the nearest priest. Does that make me a heretic?”
Another murmur.
Adelia could see the clerk at the door was becoming nervous-Robert, that was his name, Master Robert.
“You do it, then.” The king’s voice again. “Let the Church punish ’em… oh, I forgot, you can’t do it, can you? The Church can’t shed blood, but it’s happy to see heretics skinned alive by a civil court. Not your criminal clerks, though, oh, no, you won’t do that. I’ve got a case in Nottingham, six-year-old boy assaulted by a priest. Try the accused in your court, I told the bishop, and if you find him guilty, which you will, hand him over to mine-we’ll see he doesn’t bugger anybody ever again. But oh, no, he’s a priest; can’t touch a priest, that’s purely a Church matter-so the bastard’s free to do it again.”
Don’t mention Becket, thought Adelia, wincing. Don’t give them cause to best you again.
Winning the argument with his king might have cost Archbishop Becket his life, but it had gained him sainthood-and the continuing inviolability of the clergy from civil prosecution.
The door to the receiving room was opening. A fat, angry man in the robes and scarlet hat of a cardinal emerged from behind it. Adelia caught a whiff of scent and sweat as he lumbered past. The Plantagenet stood in the doorway, balefully watching him go.
“Um,” Master Robert said unhappily.
“What,” his king shouted at him.
“Well, we’re on rather thin ice here, my lord. The monseigneur does represent the Pope. And the Pope-”
“Can put England under interdict if I won’t punish its heretics, thank you, Robert, I know. How many of these bloody heretics are there?”
“Three, my lord.”
Henry sighed. “All right, then. Tell the executioner to brand an H on their foreheads and let ’ em go. See if that satisfies His Holiness. The iron’s not to penetrate too deep, mind.”
“Yes, my lord.” Master Robert made a note. “I fear you will have to attend the branding; the cardinal will then at least be able to report to the Pope that you sanctioned the punishment by your presence.”