Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (23 page)

“You would do that?” I ask.

“I would. No promises, of course. No promises at all. Sir George of Brighthelmstone is a man of principle. It is difficult to change his mind.”

I nod my thanks, but I am not hopeful. We should leave the village. Search for horses somewhere else. But finding horses is like finding buried treasure these days. And I know there is treasure here in this village. Shining treasure with hooves and manes. Stealing is a sin, but the hunger in my stomach burns brighter than salvation. Sir George’s instincts about me were correct. I will have those horses. There will be time for penance later.

The priest leads the three men to a bench at the foot of the platform. All of them take a seat next to a man and woman who hold hands.

“Shouldn’t the brothers be bound?” Morgan asks. “If things go badly for them, they’re likely to flee.”

Martin tilts his head and squints at Morgan. “Those three men are not the brothers. They are the councilmen who will rule on the case.”

“Where are the accused then?” I ask. “Shouldn’t they be present?”

“But, they are present.” The mayor points to the left of the platform. “There. Those four over there.”

A half-dozen men stand where Martin points, but I cannot decide which ones are the accused. The wagon stands behind the men and I briefly consider making an offer on the oxen. But oxen are slow. Far too slow to beat Richard’s army to St. Edmund’s Bury.

“Will the brothers be brought onto the platform now?” Morgan asks.

“The attorney might put one or two of them up there,” Martin says. “But certainly not all four.”

“They should all be allowed to face their accusers,” Morgan says.

“Don’t be absurd.” Martin laughs, his thick, thundery laugh. “It would be impossible to keep order. You can’t put four pigs on a stage.”

Chapter 27

Pigs are on trial.

It should not come as a surprise. Trials like these occur from time to time in villages and towns, mostly in France, but we English are not above them. A dog on trial for killing sheep. A horse for trampling a man. A cow for kicking a child. I never understood such proceedings. Father Aubrey tried to explain it once. He said that trials of this sort are a way of mourning, a means of coping with tragedy. That animals are put on trial so that men and women can bring order and justice to a senseless and random event.

I have never believed that.

In my younger days, I thought animal trials were a reflex of anger. Like a man kicking a rock that he stubs his toe upon. But age has given me insights into the motivations of men. I now believe that animals are put on trial because sometimes they do not know their place. They forget, sometimes, the hierarchy of God’s creatures. And nothing enrages a man—or terrifies him—so much as an inferior rising above his station. This is why the Peasant Revolt has reverberated across the world. This is why men accused of treason are publicly beheaded. This is why men like Saint Thomas Beckett are murdered.

Animals are the most inferior of the inferiors, so they are tried and executed, and man ascertains maintains his moral, spiritual, and physical superiority.

But I am not interested in superiority of any sort right now. I need horses, not absurdity.

Martin excuses himself and makes his way to the platform, where he announces the trial and relinquishes the stage to the attorney. The attorney, a young man with a trimmed mustache and a pointed beard, describes the events of the crime.

“On July 8, in the year 1385, upon the feast day of Saint Withburga, five pigs entered into the home of Reginald Fynch, a cowherd on a farm in the village of Wickham Market, and of his wife, Elenor. The five pigs encountered six-year-old Basilia Fynch inside and set upon her with furiosity, eating the face and neck of the said child, who, in consequence of the bites and defacements inflicted by the said pigs, departed this life.”

The woman on the bench, Elenor apparently, sobs and covers her face. The man beside her—Reginald, I assume—puts an arm around her shoulders, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

The attorney recounts the despair and rage that Reginald Fynch suffered upon entering the home. A rage so powerful that the man killed one of the five pigs with his bare hands. It is, the attorney adds, the remains of this dead pig that the priest was scattering on the roadside “to rot and putrefy and to never enter a human body.”

Two witnesses are called to the stage. The first is Reginald Fynch himself, who testifies angrily that the pigs tethered to the wagon are, indeed, the ones he saw in the house, tearing at his daughter’s flesh. The second witness is a man named Salomon Daye, a bread maker who rushed to the Fynch home when he heard Reginald’s screams and saw the very same pigs there.

Martin returns to us as Salamon testifies. The mayor watches the proceedings for a time, then sighs heavily. “We have but one attorney in the village,” he says. “So the pigs are being defended by a church clerk.”

“A church clerk?” Morgan says. “That is hardly a fair defense.”

Martin shrugs. “We do what we can in these dark times.” He pats me on the shoulder. “But we have Sir John now. And he will defend the accused in the next trial.”

“Defend the accused?” I shake my head. “I am no attorney, Martin.”

“You do not wish to help us rid the world of this foul plague?”

“And how, exactly, will defending a criminal do that?”

“You are not defending a criminal,” Martin replies. “You are taking part in a solemn ceremony and trial. An anathema. We are going to excommunicate the plague.”

I stare at him for a long moment. He clears his throat. “We posted notices in churches throughout Suffolk, asking the afflicted to come and be judged. And come they have! Did you see the plagued men and women at the gate? They all showed up for the trial. A few at a time. We’ve been keeping them here as they present themselves. They will be tried under God, Sir John. Under God! The priests say they must be defended properly in the trial or the anathema will not work. And you are a lord, well-versed in the law.” He frowns. “Where is it that you come from?”

“You want to excommunicate a plague?” I ask. “Are you mad?” I say the words, knowing he is not. Or if he is, it is a common madness. Like animal trials, I have heard of anathemas. They are curses, cast against creatures that cannot take the sacrament, and so cannot be officially excommunicated.

Locust swarms, hives of rats, flies, even worms and weevils are said to be cast away or killed outright by these curses. I once witnessed an anathema trial against caterpillars, with one of the caterpillars present, and it made today’s pig trial seem solemn by comparison. Yet another anathema, in France, was directed at pigeons that made too much noise outside the church during mass. The curse was so effective, it is said, that it reaped an unintended consequence: to this day, any pigeon that flies within five feet of the church falls dead. I laughed when I heard the tale, but a priest told it to me, and who am I to doubt the veracity of God’s servants?

“The afflicted are demons,” Martin says. “And so we must curse them back to Hell.”

I shake my head. “The afflicted are not—”

“Shhhh.” The mayor points to the platform. “Here comes the defense.”

An old man steps onto the stage. He wears long robes, similar to the houpelande worn by the attorney.

“We didn’t have another attorney’s robe,” Martin says. “So we gave him one of Father David’s robes. It’s a fortunate thing priests and attorneys wear similar clothing.”

“And both occupations serve similar functions,” Morgan replies. “Both represent justice and mercy, and try to shepherd their charges toward a good judgment.” He grins, pleased with his metaphor.

Tristan nods. “And the more you pay them, the better the chance of a good judgment.”

Morgan crosses his arms. “Must you always be so wicked?”

“My apologies,” Tristan replies. “Attorneys do not deserve such cruelty.”

“Shhh!” The mayor points toward the platform again.

The clerk gazes at Reginald and Elenor on the bench, and clasps his hands. “I am terribly sorry for the loss incurred by Reginald and his wife. It is a tragedy. A horrible, grievous tragedy.” He turns to the crowd and holds a trembling finger to the sky. “But to try animals in a court is to imbue them with an equality to man. If beasts are capable of knowing right from wrong—and can incur praise and blame—then they are capable of being judged in the afterlife.” He stares into the crowd and lets the words settle. “If that is the case, then beasts would be a species of man, or men a species of beasts. And both of these propositions are incompatible with the Word of God!” The old man’s voice gains strength, he thrusts his finger higher into the sky and glares at the crowd. “Based on this argument, I call for the trial to be ceased, and these animals to be released!”

The whistles and boos begin even before he finishes the last sentence. Someone throws a carrot. Two soldiers wade through the crowd to restrain the vegetable hurler. I turn my back. The clerk is the only one at this trial who has spoken with any sort of sense, and he is being assaulted for it. I will not find horses for sale here, among this crowd. Only absurdity. It is time to search out the stables.

I glance toward the gate and spot a soldier sprinting toward us. The pommel of my sword touches my palm.

“Galfrid presents a most formidable defense.” The attorney is back on stage. “Well structured and delivered. But Galfrid is a clever man. He knows very well that we are not judging the animals before us, but the demons that lurk beneath their flesh. And those demons must be expunged! I say to our honorable councilmen, find these animals and their demons guilty and justice will be done!”

The crowd roars at the words.

“An unassailable display of logic,” Tristan says.

Martin clambers onto the platform and raises his hands to quiet the crowd. He turns to the three robed men sitting on the wooden bench beside the platform. “What say you, councilmen?”

The men lean in and there is much nodding and whispering. I glance back again. The running soldier stops at the far edge of the crowd and searches for someone.

One of the councilmen, a stooped man with a long gray mustache, stands.

“We find the accused porkers guilty of willful murder. We further find that the pigs killed the child and ate of its flesh on a Friday, and it is expressly forbidden by the Church to eat meat on a Friday. Therefore, the pigs should have additional punishment before their execution.”

The men and women cheer again; some wave their arms wildly in the air or shake their fists at the squealing pigs.

I glance back again. The soldier shoves his way into the crowd.

“We have to go.” It is not possible to be overcautious when the King of England wants you dead.

“But you have been called to defend the afflicted,” Morgan says. “Or the anathema will not work.”

“Anathemas always work, Morgan,” I watch the crowd ripple as the soldier pushes his way through. “Locusts eventually leave. Caterpillars die off. And pigeons grow quiet when the rutting season ends. Now let’s get out of this village before it’s too late.” But I do not know in which direction to flee. The others look to me as I debate our choices.

The cheers of the men and women in the crowd are wild and shrill. The pigs squeal and buck, perhaps sensing the aggression of the crowd. Martin waves his hands again to silence the crowd. “The councilmen have spoken. The accused animals will receive ten lashes each, immediately, and then shall be hanged by the neck until dead.”

His next words are spoken quickly—almost mumbled—his hand making a cursory sign of the cross. “We do this in the name of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Amen
.”

The spectators grow reverent for a moment. They bow their heads long enough to say
amen
, then cheer savagely again.

The soldier in the crowd finds Brian Nottynge and speaks to him, gesticulating madly. Brian’s gaze sweeps over the area slowly. His eyes meet mine and the surveying stops. He gives me a smile with far too much warmth, and whispers an aside to the soldier.

I set off at a brisk walk toward the gate and call back to the others. “Let’s go!”

Richard’s men must have arrived. They will either wait at the gate, or they will head to the platform to collect us themselves. Either way, we will have enemies at both sides. But I am guessing Richard only sent one or two men. And only two guards at the gatehouse. Much better chances.

“Edward, what’s wrong?” Morgan asks.

“Wait!” Pantaleon shouts. “The arse does not moves.”

“Ass,” Zhuri calls.

“Leave it,” I snap. “Leave it and move! Quickly!”

Brian Nottynge walks our way, his short sword out of its sheath. The soldier who spoke with him runs off in the direction that Sir George and his men walked only a few moments before.

A lashing whip cracks behind us. A pig’s agonized squeal tears at the sky. The crowd roars. Tristan glances back. “That will teach those porkers not to eat meat on Friday.” He grins, but there is concern on his face. “Brian Nottynge is following us with his sword out.”