Ravenheart (54 page)

“And how, pray, does this further your cause, Master Shaddler?” asked the bishop.

“Perhaps it will not, my lord. I felt it would be helpful if the court understood the nature of Parsis Feld’s business prior to and following Maev Ring’s involvement. Master Shelan is, if you like, a character witness.” Shaddler had returned to the volume of Holy Law, opening it to a marked page. “If you please, I refer the court to Chapter Eleven—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” snapped the bishop. “I don’t doubt you have some scrap of ancient law to justify this waste of time. You may proceed. But be brief.”

Galliott, sitting high in the gallery, watched as Shaddler moved around the table to approach Onray Shelan. His movements were awkward, and there was sweat on the schoolteacher’s face. He had removed his black coat, and the gray shirt he wore beneath it was streaked with blood from the lashing he had suffered the day before.

Shelan’s evidence was compelling. He had been approached several years earlier by Maev Ring, who had paid for his journey north. He had then examined the weapons produced by the Feld forge, pronouncing them of mediocre design and poor craftsmanship. Maev Ring had offered him a four-year contract to design and produce superior pieces, which he had done. They were now highly sought after, creating large profits for the Felds and for himself.

“Do you use witchcraft in your work?” asked Alterith Shaddler.

Shelan laughed. “No, sir. Merely good design, quality metals, and wood. I also have pride in my work and will
not allow a single piece to be sold unless it is to the highest standard.”

“Did you have many dealings with Maev Ring?”

“I did not, sir. We communicated by letter mostly, though I have met the lady on three occasions.”

“Did Parsis Feld ever speak to you concerning her?”

“I object to this,” said Arlin Bedver. “Words which may or not have been spoken by the late Master Feld cannot be corroborated.”

“The witness will not answer that question,” said the bishop.

“How was your relationship with Parsis Feld?” asked Alterith Shaddler. “Were you friends?”

“I liked the man greatly,” said Shelan. “There was no arrogance in him. He knew that he was less than brilliant as a businessman, and many’s the time he blessed the day that Maev Ring rescued his forge.”

“Objection!” roared Arlin Bedver.

“So noted,” said the bishop. “You will refrain, sir,” he told Shelan, “from making observations. You will answer questions directly and not elaborate on them.”

“What are your plans now, Master Shelan?” asked Alterith Shaddler.

“I shall resign from the forge,” said Shelan, “and travel south to the capital. I stayed longer than I had anticipated because of my liking for Parsis Feld and my respect for Maev Ring.”

Bedver made no attempt to cross-examine the gunsmith. Galliott glanced along the gallery, looking at the faces of the spectators. They were sitting quietly but listening intently. Onray Shelan came across as a man speaking the simple truth. When his evidence was finished, he stepped from the box and offered a deep bow to Maev Ring. She nodded to him and gave a small smile.

To Galliott’s surprise, Alterith Shaddler did not call Maev Ring to give evidence. Instead he launched into his summation. Galliott could not recall all that he said, but the spirit of
it burned in him even now. As Shaddler spoke, Galliott became aware that he was not really addressing the judgment panel but was speaking instead to the packed galleries of Varlish onlookers. He talked of failing businesses and Maev Ring’s skill in assessing problem areas and overcoming them. He listed the years of increasing profits for each of the enterprises. But it was the closing remarks that plunged home like arrows of fire.

“Imagine if you will,” he said, “a foreign land, far from Varlain. A brilliant young Varlish entrepreneur travels there and finds that there are laws preventing him from using his skills to found a business. So he sets out to make his fortune by investing his genius in the businesses of others, bringing his Varlish skills to bear. As the years pass, this young Varlish becomes more and more succesful. All who know him are impressed by his acumen. But then some of the people of this land, people he has helped make rich, decide that he is too powerful. So they go to the king and ask that this Varlish be arrested. The king, an honest and good man, interviews and questions the young Varlish and finds him innocent of all charges. He has killed no one, cheated no one, and broken no law. Indeed, his success has also seen the king’s treasury swell as tax revenues have increased. But his enemies are determined to bring him down, and they decide that since they cannot emulate his success, he must be in league with dark forces. So this young Varlish is brought before another court. Witnesses who would speak up for him are threatened, and those who resist the threats are foully murdered. What would we think were we to hear this story? Would we come to believe that he was truly a sorcerer? Or would we know in our hearts that a terrible injustice was being perpetrated?

“Here in this Holy Court we see a highland woman whose crime is that she is remarkably intelligent. What iniquities has she been accused of? Making people rich has never been considered a crime. No. What we have heard is greedy men talking of goat dreams and whoremongering, of mysterious bewitchments that they did not complain of until they saw
an opportunity to become even wealthier. What we see is a judicial system manipulated and corrupted for the sake of money.”

The bishop hammered his gavel to the table, the sound echoing up into the galleries. “Have a care, schoolteacher. You still have forty lashes to endure for your impertinence. The Book of Holy Law, which you have become so fond of, states that it is within my power to add forty more. Now are you finished?”

“Aye, my lord, I am almost done here. I do not expect those whose hearts are blacker than the pit to care about principles of truth and justice. But know this: If Maev Ring is found guilty, I will make it my life’s work to see that the perpetrators of this evil are brought to book.”

“And I am sure your life will be a long and happy one,” the bishop said with a smile. “You have made so many friends, Master Shaddler. It is almost inconceivable that anyone would set out to harm you. Now sit down.” Shaddler did so, and Galliott leaned forward as the bishop rose from his seat.

“Maev Ring, many witnesses have given evidence under oath concerning your foul activities, which are a stench in the nostrils of the holy. You have bewitched and seduced good and upright citizens and not once offered a word of remorse. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?”

All eyes swung to the tall, red-haired highland woman. She stood quietly for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was firm and strong. “I wish to thank Alterith Shaddler for removing my distaste for all things Varlish. And I offer my sincere condolences to the widow of Gillam Pearce, another good man whom it was my privilege to know. As to this court I have only the utmost contempt. That is all I have to say.”

Someone in the gallery began to applaud, and to Galliott’s surprise others joined in. The Varlish spectators—except Jorain Feld and other prosecution witnesses—rose to their feet and clapped their hands. Galliott saw the shock on Maev Ring’s face. She looked up at the massed ranks of Varlish and bowed to them.

“There will be silence!” bellowed the bishop. “I will not have this court made a mockery!”

“Too late,” shouted someone in the gallery. “You’ve already done that yourself, you fat swine!”

“Guards! Find that man!” screamed the bishop. Two redliveried guards ran up the inner steps to the left-hand gallery, but once they reached the crowd, everyone had resumed his seat, and they stood helplessly. The bishop was breathing heavily, and his face was streaked with sweat. He glared at Maev Ring.

“You will be taken from here to your cell. Tomorrow at noon the demons will be burned from your body, and your soul consigned to the master of hell you have served for so long. Take her away.”

“Shame!” came another voice, this time from the right-hand gallery. Then the booing began. Seat cushions were hurled down at the judgment panel.

The bishop, abbots, and clerics all departed swiftly through the rear of the building, but the four knights of the Sacrifice stood their ground, staring up at the jeering crowd. As Jorain Feld rose to leave the gallery, someone pushed him. He stumbled into another man.

“Watch where you’re going,” said the second man. “I don’t want to be polluted by touching you.”

Jorain rushed for the exit, the curses of the spectators ringing in his ears. On the stairs he was pushed again. He slipped and fell, tearing his breeches. Some of the other witnesses were also being manhandled.

Galliott eased his way through the angry crowd and walked out into the dusk. Alterith Shaddler was once more met by a group of highlanders, who escorted him away. Galliott saw the giant figure of Huntsekker emerging from the other door. The man walked over to where he waited.

“A black day, Captain,” he said. Huntsekker tugged at the twin spikes of his iron-gray beard. “And it will get worse.”

“I fear so,” agreed Galliott.

“Have you heard that Grymauch is back?”

“I have.”

“He’ll come, you know.”

Galliott sighed. “There’ll be fifty men here and twenty musketeers. I have men looking for him now. If we find him, I’ll have him arrested on some pretext and keep him in the cells until this … this obscenity is over.”

“You’ll not find him, Captain. He’ll wade into your fifty men. Truth to tell, I’ll be tempted to join him.”

“As would I, under other circumstances,” admitted Galliott. “But we won’t, Master Huntsekker, for we are Varlish and pledged to uphold the laws of state and church.”

“Even when the church is riddled with corruption?” queried Huntsekker.

“Even then.”

Huntsekker swore softly. Then he chuckled. “Did you hear about the time Grymauch stole my bull? We spent the night searching for him, and when we returned, it was back in the paddock, a sprig of heather tied to its horn.”

Galliott smiled. “I remember. I always thought you would hate him for that.”

“You don’t hate a man like Grymauch. You thank the Source for him. I’ll never forget that night or watching him beat the fighter Gorain. He is a man to match the mountains, Captain.”

Alone now by his fire, Galliott poured another Uisge. Given the choice, he would have ridden far from Eldacre on the morrow, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the vileness of the execution. Yet he did not have the choice. He would have to stand in the open ground before the pyre and listen as Maev Ring burned to death.

Galliott thought of Jaim Grymauch. He would come to the execution. Of that there was no doubt. The one-eyed clansman would try to save Maev Ring.

With a deep sigh the Borderer replaced the mesh screen before his fire. Tomorrow he would have to kill Jaim Grymauch, and the prospect filled his heart with an abiding sorrow.

*  *  *

The morning was bright and clear, and Galliott washed, shaved, and dressed in black boots and leggings, putting on two white woolen shirts beneath his black breastplate. Strapping his saber to his hip, he swung his black cloak about his shoulders and set off for the castle.

As he walked through the streets, he saw people gathering, talking on street corners. He also saw highlanders coming into the town, scores of them. Reaching the castle gates, he stared off toward the hills. The roads were thick with people.

He had anticipated that several hundred would attend the execution, but now he revised that estimate. If the highlanders were coming, there might be as many as a thousand filling the cathedral square. His fifty men would be hard-pressed to control such a crowd.

In his office at the castle he summoned Duty Sergeant Packard. The man saluted and stood before his desk. Packard was a veteran, hard-eyed and square-jawed. He had been a close friend of Bindoe’s and was known for his hatred of highlanders.

“Any sign of Grymauch?” asked Galliott.

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen the crowds gathering?”

“I have, sir. A lot of highlanders coming in. None of them are armed, though. Still, there could be trouble. I’ve posted guards throughout the town in double shifts.”

“Good thinking.”

“You think she is a witch, sir?”

“No. But that is not our concern.”

“Didn’t think she was. It’s not right, sir.”

“No, it isn’t right, Sergeant. Our job, however, is to marshal the crowds and see that there is no trouble. In situations such as this the wrong word or action can spark a riot. I want all the men told to maintain their tempers. If we have any hotheads in the troop, assign them duties at the castle.”

“If the crowd tops a thousand, our fifty won’t be able to control them, sir.”

“I know. How many men do we have on castle and patrol duties?”

“One hundred and thirty, sir. We had to send five hundred north for Colonel Ranaud.”

“Double the execution guard to one hundred. Equip the men with quarterstaves. They can use them to keep the crowd back.”

“Yes, sir. There’s a whisper that Jaim Grymauch might cause trouble.”

“Believe it, Sergeant. As soon as he shows himself, I want him taken. I’d prefer it were he to be taken alive.”

“That might not be possible, Captain. He’s a big bastard, and if he’s armed, he’ll be a handful.”

“I think a hundred men should be sufficient to render him harmless.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Packard, his voice doubtful. “Why would he come? He can’t stop it. He’ll just be throwing his life away.”

Galliott rose from his desk and walked to the window. In the far distance he could see clouds over the snowcapped mountains. “He’ll come because he has to,” Galliott said sadly. He turned back toward Packard. “He’ll come because that’s what heroes do. They fight for what is right, no matter what the cost.”

“If he’s a hero, sir, doesn’t that make us villains?”

“It does today, Sergeant.”

Alterith Shaddler swung his skinny legs from his bed and sat up. The morning was cold with the promise of winter. He had, despite his grief and the pain from his back, dozed a little during the long night. There was a little blood on the sheets, but the wounds from the lash were healing fast. The apothecary Ramus had visited him the night before, giving him, free of charge, a cooling balm. Alterith had accepted it with thanks and had managed to smear some on his shoulders and sides. But he could not reach the cuts between his shoulder blades, and they pulled tight whenever he moved.