He lowered his head, trying to imagine what his father would have done in his stead. Roth would no doubt tell him he could not damn a man for what he might do, and lacking any evidence of what he had done, his only choice was to enforce the betrothal.
When he raised his head again, he saw a line of crows had gathered upon the window ledges high above the benches, adding their beady eyes to the gawping crowd. He counted two dozen of them, but only one of them held his gaze for more than a second. It had a streak of white in its feathers, and neither preened nor primped but merely watched. He thought of the red hart he had chased into the forest and how he had taken it as a sign. Could this too be a sign?
"I have weighed the evidence presented by both parties and find no compelling reason to dismiss the man Craven's claim, as much as I might want to, and so with heavy heart I must find in his favour. I take no joy from this decision, save that it is a fair one." He turned his attention to the fat man, whose delight was evident on his ruddy features. "I would urge you not to wed merely to sire sons but risk your heart once more, for that is the great triumph of man, our ability to love again and again. The old wounds hurt, but new loves can heal them better than any unguent. But if your mind is set on this course, then so be it. It is not for me to change it. If you cannot love, then at least you can fulfil your husbandly duties and provide for this woman so that she does not want, and in that be the best husband you can be to her. This is my verdict. Do you agree to abide by it?"
"Aye, my lord," Craven said. "Thank you."
"Do not thank me. A life without love is no life worth living, as far as I can tell." He turned to Isaiah. "And what of you? Do you swear to abide by the judgement of this court?"
"Yes, my lord," the tall man said. Where he had seemed like a spindle as he first shuffled towards the chair, now he seemed like reed broken in the wind. His back bowed, the strength gone from his spine. There could be no doubting the fact that he truly believed his daughter's claims and took Alymere's judgement to mean she had just been condemned to death. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the when of it was not important. It took what little strength remained to him to walk away from the seat without having to lean upon the bailiffs for support. He maintained that much dignity, at least, though he could no longer look at his daughter.
The woman spared no such thoughts for dignity. She cried out: "No!" struggling against the hands that reached for her. And he realised he did not even know her name. Like the two men she stood between he had treated her as nothing more than a chattel to be traded. The realisation made him sick. To her he said, "You do not deserve this, and I feel that I have failed you. For that I am truly sorry. I can only hope that you find happiness." And to the men, "I do not want to see either of you before me again. The pair of you sicken me to my stomach. Think on what has happened here. Do right by each other, I implore you." To the galleries, he called, "The court is ended. I need to scrub the taint of this decision from my skin."
As one, the four and twenty birds took flight, the flurry of their wings against the glass turning every head. Only the white-streaked crow remained. It did not fly away until Alymere left his seat and the Assizes came to a close for the day.
Thirty-Two
Word came to the house less than a week later that the woman had died by her own hand the first night she was to have slept with the fat man, Craven. That alone was enough to wrench his heart from his chest and trample on it, but it was not the end to her tragic story. Her father, Isaiah, learning of her suicide, and believing he had failed the girl when she needed him most, broke into the house of his former friend, and cut the fat man's throat, bleeding him like one of his own pigs before turning the knife on himself. The three deaths weighed heavy upon Alymere's shoulders.
He sat beneath the old apple tree, his back pressed up against the rough bark. He had not spoken since news of the deaths reached him.
He had based his decision upon what he felt was right, but it had killed them all, so how could it possibly have been right? He had failed all three of them.
Had he just had the courage to believe the girl — her name was Josephina, he now knew — they might all be alive now. Had he not placed such ridiculously high value upon a man's word that man would not now be consigned to the flames of hell as a murderer. He thought nothing good of the man, Craven, save that he did not deserve to die.
His breath burned hot in his lungs. Alymere reached up and snapped off a sour apple from a low hanging branch. He did not bite into it — the fruit was not good to eat — but simply toyed with the stem, thinking of the people he had killed with his judgement.
That was his burden to bear. He felt himself wanting to be free of his mind, to drift away somewhere he did not exist, where he could not feel and he could not be hurt — nor hurt others. He wanted to fall away from himself; to become no-one.
But he could not.
These were his dead as surely as if he had killed them with his own hand and he had no choice but to own them.
He looked up and saw Gwen walking towards him across the lawn. The sun shone through the diaphanous material of her gown, bringing her shape alive beneath it. Again he was struck by her faded beauty, and found a deep-seated loathing within himself for thinking his lustful thoughts. She had been nothing but kind to him, and all he could think of was how the cloth sashayed around her legs and rode her hips as she walked. She deserved better from him, but then, so did everybody. It was self-pity, he knew, but knowing was not enough to quell it.
She sat beside him.
"You did not give her the knife, neither did you hold it to Craven's throat," she said. "These were the deeds of others, sweet man. You cannot be responsible for them."
He looked at her, then. The leafy shadows mottled her cheeks. "If I had decided the other way she would not have taken her life. My decision brought about her death."
"Perhaps, but who is to say that by denying Craven his new wife, he would not have sought some other recompense? It is not hard to imagine a man like him taking her life as punishment for her father breaking faith, is it? There was no love there, he freely admitted so himself. This was a dispute over property. He came before you a wronged man. Had you ruled against him he would have left the manor house both wronged and humiliated, a dangerous combination in a man like Craven, I think. The only truth here is that we cannot know the minds of others, my lord. It is torture to think that we can. It could be that her death was writ on the very day she was born, or that God sealed it the day He took Craven's first wife up to Heaven. Ours is not to question Him, only to abide here before we are worthy of His paradise."
He tossed the apple away. "She is but one soul in the grand scheme of things, true, but how could such evil come from good intention? That is what I find hardest to bear. I truly believed he would give her a good life, even if not the one she would have chosen for herself."
"The fires of Hell are fuelled by good intentions, my lord."
"True." Alymere snapped off another apple, and despite knowing full well the fruit was sour, bit into it. He chewed and swallowed three bites before tossing the core away. "Tell me of Alma. I would hear something good on this wretched day."
"She is an angel, my lord. I bless the day you brought her into my life and every day thereafter."
Thirty-Three