The Last Horseman (44 page)

‘A little,’ he said.

‘Did the cleric at the school teach you nothing when you were a child?’

The village school had taught him to write his name and a few letters. Work was more important than learning.

Blackstone shook his head.

‘Sweet Jesus! What a waste of time.’ Sir Gilbert kicked the bars of the cage in frustration. ‘Had your mother lived she would have given you some learning. I can’t help you. I’ll speak for you and your grunting brother.’

Blackstone had prayed that Sir Gilbert’s presence was a sign of hope, but now he realized that he and his brother would most likely be choking to death, kicking to the amusement of the crowd, before the sun climbed higher than the prison’s turret. The knight nodded at the soldiers and stepped back as the brothers were roughly pulled from the cages, then prodded and kicked towards the sheriff’s tourn – the circuit court that dealt with serious cases, bringing the judges to the county, keen to clear any backlog of felons so that the gaols could be emptied. Leniency was seldom recorded in the court records.

As the brothers ducked beneath the arched doorway they saw two soldiers leading away a girl no older than ten. The one soldier laughed and turned to the other. ‘They dance longer at the end of rope when they’re this small.’

The child looked bewildered but allowed herself to be taken towards the town square and the decaying remains of the man still hanging from the gibbet. Blackstone felt a pang of remorse for her – more than for himself and his brother.

‘What did she do?’ he heard himself ask. Hanging was a common enough occurrence, though he and his brother saw little of it in the village, and the guard seemed surprised that he had even bothered to ask.

‘Stole a piece of lace from her mistress,’ he said, and shoved the brothers forward into the courtroom.

*

The usual mockery directed at Blackstone’s brother took up the first few minutes of the trial. That the grunting, incoherent creature in the shape of the accused was an affront to the good people of the county and that allowing such a dangerous beast loose on unsuspecting people constituted a public danger. Furthermore the responsibility for control of such a beast lay at the door of Thomas Blackstone. And as a man would be punished for the behaviour of his wife, she being his chattel, so too was this creature’s keeper responsible for the crime against Sarah Flaxley.

It was little more than a monologue of condemnation and insult and would serve only to be noted on the court record as the reason for the brothers’ execution.

The judge looked around the crowded room. It was to be a busy day with more than a dozen cases to hear – and after ridding this town of its felons he had to move on to the next county. ‘Does anyone speak for the accused?’

Sir Gilbert pushed forward. ‘I am Sir Gilbert Killbere, these are free men from the village of Sedley, which lies within the estates of my Lord Ralph Marldon. I have been instructed to inform this court that these are valued men to his lordship and he has no desire to see them punished from the approval of a turd such as Drayman.’

The judge could be bribed or threatened but it was not Lord Marldon’s place to do so, and everyone knew Sir Gilbert was a poor knight and held his position through his loyalty and fighting skills.

‘There is no evidence to suggest that this creature was not involved,’ the judge said, knowing the sheriff had tried bribery and been refused, so there was no chance that the larger amount that he would demand to dismiss the case would be forthcoming. Bribery and extortion were common practice for those exercising the Common Law. Whether it involved a judge, a bailiff or a gaoler, at every tier of justice money could save your life. How often had a sheriff had a condemned man approve the sheriff’s own enemies and then extort money from them for their lives? Sir Gilbert’s appearance was purely to make Lord Marldon’s standing appear more kindly to his tenants. He offered no means to buy the prisoners’ necks.

‘Is there any just cause why they should not hang?’ the judge asked Sir Gilbert.

‘You’ll know of the proclamation for every man with an acre or more and who earns more than five pounds a year to provide an archer for the King’s intended campaign,’ said Sir Gilbert. He looked at Blackstone, whose head tilted quickly, looking at the knight. It was the first he had heard of it. A town crier would not have visited hamlets and villages, and any written proclamation would have gone unread unless a village cleric translated, and Sedley’s cleric was on a pilgrimage to the Pope in Avignon, and had probably been waylaid at Calais by the nearest brothel. Was Sir Gilbert using the proclamation as a means of saving them?

‘These are free men. They are not bonded to his lordship, but my lord needs men-at-arms and archers to answer the King’s writ to raise an army. Thomas Blackstone is an apprenticed stonemason and earns five shillings a year. That, with his wool and crops, brings him to the required amount. His duty is clear. His life is needed by the King,’ Sir Gilbert said.

‘There are sufficient archers and hobelars in the region to satisfy the King’s demands. I see no reason to offer him a village idiot who, by his very presence, would be an affront to His Highness. If that is the only defence it is denied.’

Sir Gilbert was not about to be cut down by a warty, pot-bellied judge, living fat from bribes and authority. ‘The boy is no idiot. He’s worked in a quarry all his life, he has greater strength than many grown men, and his skills as an archer are well known in three counties. It would please the King to see his skill put to good use in killing the enemies of the realm.’

The judge pointed a stubby finger at Sir Gilbert. Men-at-arms had caused him many a grievance over his years as a judge. Fighting men familiar with rape and looting on campaign often burgled and murdered at home. He would hang as many as came his way. This one was dangerous. He knew about Sir Gilbert’s violent reputation and fighting skills, and wished there was a felony in place for which he too could be charged. ‘The five pounds law is from the land holding alone. The fool earns nothing – he is a kept beast used for quarry work, as you have admitted. His fornication with the girl is well known. His life is forfeit.’

Sir Gilbert looked at the deaf mute whose lopsided jaw dropped his face into the caricature of a fool. The knight turned to the older brother and shook his head. He could see Blackstone was ready to launch himself across the court. Sir Gilbert quietly gripped his arm and, despite the boy’s strength, held him fast. The last thing Sir Gilbert needed was Thomas Blackstone being hacked to death in court for attacking a shit-pit judge.

‘Think!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Think of what your father taught you! He was a soldier, for Christ’s sake! Lord Marldon taught your father, your father must have taught you! Think of the Benefit!’

Panic at his lack of learning gripped Blackstone’s throat. Sir Gilbert had given him a chance of life.

‘I pass sentence on both these men,’ the judge ordered.

Blackstone pulled his arm free from Sir Gilbert. ‘I claim Benefit of Clergy!’ he shouted. Sir Gilbert smiled. Blackstone’s life was now in his own hands.

A monk or priest accused of a felony could save his life by claiming the Benefit, and a literate man could invoke the same right. The risk was huge. If the accused was unable to read from the open Bible placed in front of him his execution would be uncontested. If acquitted he would be placed in the care of the clergy and tried in the Ecclesiastical courts. It was rumoured that, more often than not, a court asked the accused to read Psalm 51, the Psalm of Contrition. It was Blackstone’s only chance. His father had beaten him with a willow switch until he memorized the verse word for word. But that had been more than three years ago. Now his memory stumbled.

‘Thomas Blackstone can read. It is his right to claim,’ said Sir Gilbert.

The request could not be denied.

‘Bring the Bible. Where’s the cleric? Where is he?’ the judge demanded.

A young, tonsured monk, his black habit released from the pillars’ shadows, stepped forward with a large open Bible, its corners protected by brass fittings. He presented it to the judge who looked at the chosen passage and nodded. The monk stepped forward, held the Bible open in front of Blackstone and waited.

Blackstone’s eyes fell across the letter-covered vellum, the ornate twist of the first letter caged in a decorative painted tomb. There was nothing recognizable. He could read French. Not Latin. The number next to the Psalm was covered by the monk’s grubby thumb.

Blackstone begged his mind to remember. His master stonemason had taught him to see the structure of a building in his mind’s eye – to interpret the numbers on his drawings into reality. See it in your mind and it will appear, the grizzled master with a crushed hand had taught him.

Blackstone pictured the words his father had thrashed into him. His mind cleared of panic – the monk’s thumb moved, revealing the Psalm’s number: 51.

‘Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me…’

Line by line he went on, reciting the contrition with the pace of a man reading from the Good Book. It took a few minutes for his pretence to work. He was convincing enough for the clerk of the court to turn to the judge before committing the death sentence to the trial’s records. Blackstone dared not look at the judge, or the monk who gazed into his face. Had he realized Blackstone had only recited the words from memory? After a pause, and what Blackstone took to be a faint smile, the monk averted his eyes from his and moved back into the shadows.

‘The older brother is declared not guilty and committed to the care of the monks at St Edmund’s. The fool will hang,’ said the judge.

While Blackstone committed Psalm 51 to the court, Sir Gilbert had moved closer to the judge, his actions barely noticed as the words bounced across the granite walls. Sir Gilbert had only to lean forward. His whisper was a cold, unemotional threat.

‘Hang this boy and I will slice your cock from your crotch and fry it. You’ll eat it before you die. Give him to the monks at the priory of St Edmund’s.’

He stepped back and waited.

The blood drained from the judge’s face. Murder was common coin for some men and Sir Gilbert was not a man to make an idle threat. A poor knight without lands depended on violence to achieve any wealth or influence. The judge had no doubts about the threat. He wiped his face with an expensive linen handkerchief.

‘However… the community will be better served if we commit him also to the care of the monks of St Edmund’s, who will render some use of the mute and put him to work in God’s name. Case dismissed.’

Sir Gilbert guided the Blackstone brothers out of the court’s stone-chilled air. Richard lifted his face to the sun and uttered a braying groan of pleasure.

‘He’s a goddamn donkey in human form. Your father should have let him die,’ Sir Gilbert said as he climbed into the saddle.

‘You had that choice too, Sir Gilbert,’ said Blackstone.

‘Aye, and much good it would have done me. I had nags brought in anticipation of you using your brain.’

The monk led two swaybacked palfreys into view. He smiled at Blackstone and handed him the reins to one of them.

‘Well recited, Master Blackstone,’ he said and smiled.

Sir Gilbert turned his palfrey. ‘One with a prodigious memory, the other with a prodigious member. Both mean trouble, but my Lord Marldon wanted them alive. I’ve done my duty. Thank you, Brother Michael. Will you turn them over to my keeping?’

‘I will, Sir Gilbert.’

‘Then the money shall be at St Edmund’s as promised.’

He spurred his horse. Blackstone and Richard followed.

Sir Gilbert was riding for Lord Marldon’s manor.

*

The track meandered through the trees: steadfast oaks and great chestnuts. The riders followed the curving river two hundred feet below, turning gently through the bends of the wooded valley. On the far side the grassland on the southern slopes was being harvested by half a dozen men; the occasional shouts of playful insult between them carried up to the riders. Blackstone could not help gauging their distance and the angle of trajectory needed to fly an arrow. It was instinct, something he was blessed with from the early days when his father had given him his first bow. As he grew in strength and ability so the bow became bigger and more difficult to master. His father had taught him the skill of drawing the bowstring by laying his body into the stave; more than an arm’s strength was needed to pull the hundred and sixty pounds draw weight and to do it repeatedly. By the time the royal proclamation was issued prohibiting, under pain of imprisonment, all games that drew men away from the butts, Blackstone had already inherited his father’s cherished war bow. The ideal height for an archer’s lethal weapon, the deadliest killing machine of its age, was four inches taller than the archer, and his father’s bow stood six feet and four inches. Blackstone was the firstborn; it was his right to inherit. And, as his father knew, he was a better archer than his brother. His father had spoken gently and at length to explain that his younger son’s skills were better than any in the county, except those of Thomas. Yet he asked that every time the brothers competed, Thomas would allow Richard the final arrow of victory. It was the only way the deaf-mute child might find acceptance in the community. Father and elder son shared their secret pact with no one.

Since his father’s death, whenever he notched the hemp string over the bow’s horned nocks, and wrapped his hand around the stave’s four-inch belly, he sensed his father’s energy in the bow. It was made of yew; bonded springy sapwood on its outside, the dark, compressible heartwood facing the archer. His mind’s eye sometimes imagined the battles his father had fought. A shiver would grip his groin, uncertainty that he would ever have his father’s courage if it were demanded. That time now seemed imminent.

Swathes of meadow flowers quilted the distant fields, leading the eye of the observer to the final turn of the river where the turrets of Lord Marldon’s manor house appeared above the treetops.