Pope Joan (27 page)

“Nonsense!” Hunald exploded. “Is this court supposed to accept the unthinking actions of dumb beasts before the sacred laws of Heaven? I demand just trial by compurgation. Bring the box of relics and let me swear!”

Gerold stroked his beard, considering. Hunald was the accused; he was within his rights to request the oath taking. God would not permit him to swear falsely with his hand on the holy relics, or so said the law.

The Emperor set great store by such trials, but Gerold had his doubts. There were certainly men who, caring more for the solid advantages of this world than for the vague and insubstantial terrors of the next, would not hesitate to lie.
If it came to that, I would do it myself
, Gerold thought,
if the stakes were high enough.
He would swear to a lie on a whole cartful of relics to protect the safety of anyone he loved.

Joan.
Again her image rose irresistibly to his mind, and he forced it aside. There would be time enough for such thoughts when the day’s work was done.

“My lord.” Frambert spoke quietly into his ear. “I can vouch for Hunald. He is a fine man, a generous man, and this claim against him is falsely brought.”

Below the level of the table, out of sight of the crowd, Frambert played with a magnificent ring, an amethyst set in silver, engraved with the figure of an eagle. He twirled it round his middle finger so Gerold could see how it gleamed in the light.

“Ah, yes, a most
generous
man.” Frambert slipped the ring off his finger. “Hunald wished me to tell you that it is yours. A gesture of his appreciation for your support.” A small, tentative smile played at the corners of his lips.

Gerold took the ring. It was a magnificent piece of work, the finest he had ever seen. He handled it, admiring its weight and the perfect workmanship of its artisan. “Thank you, Frambert,” he said decisively. “This makes my judgment easier.”

Frambert’s smile widened into a broad, conspiratorial grin.

Gerold turned to Hunald. “You wish to submit yourself to the judgment of God.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hunald swelled with confidence, having witnessed the exchange between Gerold and Frambert. The servant with the box of relics stepped forward, but Gerold waved him back.

“We will seek God’s judgment through the
judicium aquae ferventis.
”

Hunald and Abo looked blank; like everyone else in the room, they knew no Latin.

“Kesselfang,”
Gerold translated.

“Kesselfang!” Hunald blanched; he had not thought of this. Ordeal by boiling water was a well-known form of trial, but it had not been employed in this part of the Empire for some years.

“Bring the caldron,” Gerold commanded.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the room dissolved into a chaotic bustle of conversation and activity. Several of the scabini rushed outside to search the nearby houses for a pot with water already on the boil. Minutes later they returned, carrying a black iron caldron, deep as a man’s arm from top to bottom, filled with steaming hot water. Placed on the hearth in the center of the room, the water soon foamed and bubbled.

Gerold nodded, satisfied. Given Hunald’s talent for bribery, it might have been a smaller pot.

Hunald scowled. “My lord Count, I protest!” Fear had rendered him indifferent to appearances. “What about the ring?”

“My thought exactly, Hunald.” Gerold held the ring up for all to see, then threw it into the caldron. “On the accused’s suggestion, this ring shall be the servitor of God’s judgment.”

Hunald swallowed hard. The ring was small and slippery; it would be hellishly difficult to retrieve. But he could not refuse the trial without admitting his guilt and returning Abo’s cows—and they were worth well over seventy solidi. He cursed the foreign count who was so inexplicably immune to the mutually beneficial exchange of favors that had characterized his dealings with other missi. Then he took a deep breath and plunged his arm into the pot.

His face creased with pain as the boiling water seared his skin. Frantically he groped round the bottom of the pot, searching for the ring. A howl of anguish broke from his lips as it slipped through his
hand. His tortured fingers scuttled after it in pursuit and—praise God!—closed upon it. He withdrew his hand and held the ring aloft.

“Aaaaaaah.” A fascinated moan passed through the crowd as they saw Hunald’s arm. Blisters and boils were already starting to form over the angry red surface of his skin.

“Ten days,” Gerold announced, “shall be the time of God’s judgment.”

There was a stir from the crowd, but it held no tone of protest. Everyone understood the law: if the wounds on Hunald’s hand and arm healed within ten days, his innocence was proved, and the cattle were his. If not, he was guilty of theft, and the cattle would be returned to their rightful owner, Abo.

Privately Gerold doubted the wounds would heal in so short a time. This was what he had intended, for he had little doubt that Hunald was guilty of the crime. And if Hunald’s wounds should happen to heal in the allotted time—well, the ordeal would make him think twice before stealing his neighbor’s cattle again. It was rough justice, but it was all the law provided, and it was far better than none.
Lex dura, sed lex.
The imperial statutes were the sole pillars supporting the rule of law in these disordered times; strike them flat, and who knew what wild winds would blow across the land, casting down weak and powerful alike.

“Call the next case, Frambert.”

“Aelfric accuses Fulrad of refusing to pay the lawful blood price.”

The case seemed straightforward enough. Fulrad’s son Tenbert, a boy of sixteen, had killed a young woman, one of Aelfric’s coloni. The crime itself was not in dispute, only the amount of the blood price. The laws regarding wergeld were detailed and specific for every person in the Empire, depending on rank, property holdings, age, and sex.

“It was her own fault,” said Tenbert, a tall, loose-jointed boy with mottled skin and a sullen expression. “She was only a colona; she should not have fought so hard against me.”

“He raped her,” Aelfric explained. “Came across her harvesting grapes in my vineyard and took a fancy to her. She was a pretty little thing of only twelve winters—still a child, really, and she didn’t understand. She thought he meant to harm her. When she wouldn’t submit willingly, he beat her senseless.” There was a long murmur from the crowd; Aelfric paused, content to let it register. “She died the next day, bruised and swollen and calling out for her mother.”

“You have no cause for complaint,” Fulrad, Tenbert’s father, broke in hotly. “Did I not pay the wergeld the next week—fifty gold solidi, a generous sum! And the girl only a common colona!”

“The girl is dead; she will not tend my vines again. And her mother, one of my best weavers, is gone woodly with grief and is of no use anymore. I demand the lawful wergeld—one hundred gold solidi.”

“An outrage!” Fulrad spread his arms wide in appeal. “Your Eminence, with what I have given him, Aelfric can purchase twenty fine milk cows—which everyone knows are worth far more than a wretched girl, her mother, and the loom combined!”

Gerold frowned. This bartering over blood price was repellent. The girl had been about the same age as Gerold’s daughter Dhuoda. The idea of this sullen, disagreeable youth forcing himself on her was grotesque. Such things happened all the time, of course—any colona who made it to the age of fourteen with her virtue intact was extraordinarily lucky, or ugly, or both. Gerold was not naive, he knew the way of the world, but he did not have to like it.

A huge leather-bound codex gold-stamped with the imperial seal rested on the table before him. In it were inscribed the ancient laws of the Empire, the
Lex Salica
, as well as the
Lex Karolina
, which included revisions and additions to the code of law issued by the Emperor Karolus. Gerold knew the law and had no need of the book. Nevertheless, he made solemn show of consulting it; its symbolic value would not be lost on the litigants, and the judgment he was about to render would require all of its authority.

“The Salic code is very clear on this point,” he said at last. “One hundred solidi is the lawful wergeld for a colona.”

Fulrad cursed aloud. Aelfric grinned.

“The girl was twelve years of age,” Gerold continued, “and had therefore reached her childbearing years. By law her blood price must be tripled to three hundred gold solidi.”

“What, is the court mad?” Fulrad shouted.

“The sum,” Gerold continued equably, “is to be paid as follows: two hundred solidi to Aelfric, the girl’s lawful lord, and one hundred to her family.”

Now it was Aelfric’s turn to be outraged. “One hundred solidi to her
family?”
he said incredulously. “To coloni? I am lord of the land-holding; the girl’s wergeld is mine by rights!”

“Are you trying to ruin me?” Fulrad interrupted, too absorbed in
his own problem to take pleasure in his enemy’s distress. “Three hundred solidi is almost the blood price of a warrior! Of a priest!” He moved aggressively toward the table where Gerold sat. “Even, perhaps”—the threat in his voice was unmistakable—“of a count?”

A short shriek of alarm came from the crowd as a dozen of Fulrad’s retainers pushed their way to the front. They were armed with swords, and they looked like men who knew how to use them.

Gerold’s men moved to counter them, their hands on their half-drawn swords. Gerold stayed them with a gesture of his hand.

“In the Emperor’s name”—Gerold’s voice rang out, steely as a knife blade—“judgment in this case has been rendered and received.” His cool indigo eyes stared Fulrad down. “Call the next case, Frambert.”

Frambert did not answer. He had slid out of his seat and was hiding under the table.

Several moments passed in tense silence, the restive, murmuring crowd utterly stilled.

Gerold sat back in his chair, giving every appearance of confidence and ease, but his right hand dangled carelessly above his sword, so close his fingertips brushed the cold steel.

Abruptly, with a muttered curse, Fulrad spun on his heel. Grabbing Tenbert roughly by the arm, he dragged him toward the door. Fulrad’s men followed, the crowd giving way before them. As they passed through the door, Fulrad struck Tenbert a hard blow to the head. The boy’s yelp of pain sounded through the hall, and the crowd exploded into raucous, tension-breaking laughter.

Gerold smiled grimly. If he knew anything about human nature, Tenbert was in for quite a beating. Perhaps it would teach him a lesson, perhaps not. Either way, it could no longer help the murdered girl. But her family would receive part of her wergeld. With it, they would be able to buy their freedom and build a better life for themselves, their remaining children, and their children’s children.

Gerold signaled his men; they resheathed their swords and withdrew to their positions behind the judicial table.

Frambert crawled out from under the table and reoccupied his seat with an air of ruffled dignity. His face was pale, and his voice shook as he read off the last case. “Ermoin, the miller, and his wife complain of their daughter, that she has willfully and against their express command taken a slave to husband.”

Again the crowd parted to let pass an elderly couple, gray haired, patrician, robed in fine cloth—testimony to Ermoin’s success in his trade. Behind them came a youth, dressed in the worn and tattered tunic of a slave, and finally a young woman, who entered with head modestly bowed.

“My lord.” Ermoin spoke without waiting to be addressed. “You see before you our daughter, Hildegarde, joy of our aging hearts, the sole surviving child of eight born to us. She has been tenderly reared, my lord—too tenderly, as we have learned to our grief. For she has repaid our loving kindness with willful disobedience and ingratitude.”

“What redress do you seek from this court?” Gerold asked.

“Why, the choice, my lord,” Ermoin said with surprise. “The spindle or the sword. She must choose, as the law requires.”

Gerold looked grave. In his career as missus he had presided over one other such case; he did not relish witnessing another.

“The law, as you say, provides for such a circumstance. But it seems harsh, especially for one who has been raised so—tenderly. Is there no other way?”

Ermoin took his meaning. The man price could be paid, the boy bought out of slavery and made a freedman.

“No, my lord.” He shook his head vehemently.

“Very well,” Gerold said resignedly. There was no way to avoid it—the girl’s parents knew the law and would insist on carrying out the ugly business to its conclusion.

“Bring a spindle,” Gerold commanded. “And Hunric”—he gestured to one of his men—“lend me your sword.” He would not use his own weapon; it had never yet bitten into undefended flesh, nor ever would while Gerold carried it.

Some moments of bustle and commotion ensued while a spindle was procured from a nearby house.

The girl looked up as it was carried in. Her father spoke sharply to her, and she quickly dropped her eyes. But in that brief moment, Gerold got a glimpse of her face. She was exquisite—huge carnelian eyes islanded in a sea of milky skin, a fine, delicate brow, sweetly curving lips. Gerold could understand her parents’ fury: with such a face the girl might have captured the heart of a great lord, even a nobleman, and bettered her family’s fortunes.

Gerold placed one hand on the spindle; with his other he raised the sword. “If Hildegarde chooses the sword,” Gerold said loudly so
all might hear, “then her husband, the slave Romuald, will immediately die by it. If she chooses the spindle, then she herself will become a slave.”

It was a terrible choice. Once Gerold had witnessed a different girl, not so lovely but just as young, face the same alternatives. That one had chosen the sword and stood by while the man she loved was slain with it before her eyes. Yet what else could she have done? Who would willingly choose vile debasement, not only for herself but for her children, and all future generations of her line?

The girl stood silent and unmoving. She had not reacted with so much as a quiver when Gerold had explained the trial.