Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
Rising from the bench on which he had been sleeping, he went through the psalm and prayers by himself in a whisper. Then, still not satisfied, he whispered a Pater Noster.
Pater Noster, qui es in coelis
: Our Father, who art in Heaven …
Amen. The night. The time when the silent voice of God’s universe descended upon him. Why, then, should he feel so disquieted? He got up, wanted to pace about but could hardly do so without waking the lay brothers. He lay down again.
The woman. She was asleep, no doubt, with her husband in the barn. A good woman, probably, in her way. Like all
the peasant women, she had slightly red cheeks and smelled of the farm. He closed his eyes. Her warmth. He had never felt such a thing before. He tried to sleep. The Furzey fellow. Had he made love to her in the barn this night? Might they, possibly, be doing so now, even as he lay there in the silence? Was the cart maker enveloped in that warmth?
He opened his eyes. Dear God, what was he thinking? And why? Why should his mind be dwelling on her? Then he sighed. He should have known better. It was just the devil, up to his usual tricks: a little test of faith; a new one.
Was the devil in this woman, then? Of course. The devil had been in all women from the first. When she had stood in front of him like that this afternoon he should perhaps have spoken severely to her. But it was the devil who was using her, really; just as he was using her image now to distract him. He closed his eyes again.
He did not sleep.
The morning was sparkling. The wind had passed away. It was utterly still. The sky was blue. Beaulieu, its abbey, its fields, its granges were all carpeted and coated by a soft white mantle.
When he came out of the grange, Brother Adam saw by the footprints from the barn door that the woman had already left. And for several moments, before he corrected himself, he thought of her, walking alone across the dazzling white heath.
In late February Luke disappeared and Mary hardly knew whether she was relieved or sad.
As soon as the snow had melted in late January he had started going out before dawn, returning only after dusk. Her terror had been that he might make tell-tale tracks in the frost, but somehow he didn’t, and every day she would leave a little food hidden in the loft where he slept.
All through January, while Tom was working at St Leonards, she would sneak out after the children were asleep and then, sitting together just as they had when they were children themselves, they would talk. Several times they had discussed what he should do. The full Forest Court was not meeting until April. The verderer’s court had only forwarded the case to them, so until then it wouldn’t be clear how serious a view they took of the Beaulieu matter. They discussed Brother Adam’s suggestion that Luke should give himself up, but Luke always shook his head.
‘That’s easy for him to say. But with the abbot and the prior disowning me, you don’t know what’s going to happen. At least this way I’m free.’
For her, it was a joy to have one of her family to talk to. And what talks they had had. He would describe the abbey, the prior with his stooping walk and claw-like hands, every lay brother and monk, until she laughed so hard she was afraid of waking the children. Yet there was something so gentle and simple about Luke that he never seemed to hate anyone, even Grockleton. She asked him about Brother Adam.
‘The lay brothers don’t quite know what to make of him. The monks all love him, though.’
In a way, because of his dreamy, gentle nature, Mary had never been surprised when Luke joined the lay brothers; but she couldn’t resist asking him once: ‘Didn’t you ever want a woman, Luke?’
‘I don’t know, really,’ he said easily. ‘I’ve never had one.’
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘No.’ He laughed quite contentedly. ‘There’s always so much else to do in the Forest, isn’t there?’
She smiled, but didn’t bring up the subject again. With him in hiding, there wasn’t much point.
They also discussed the quarrel between Furzey and Pride over the pony. He sympathized with her, of course,
but here he showed the irresponsible, rather childish side of his nature, she thought. ‘Poor old Tom’ll never get his pony back. That’s for sure.’
‘So how long will this quarrel last?’
‘A year or two, I should think.’
When Tom returned at the end of January, their meetings had to be curtailed – a snatched conversation now and then. And since there was certainly no sign of the quarrel ending she felt almost like a prisoner herself. Luke would be gone before dawn and come back after dark, with only the empty wooden bowl of food to show that he’d been there.
Then he had told her he was going.
‘Where?’
‘Can’t say. Better you don’t know.’
‘Are you leaving the Forest?’
‘Maybe. Probably best.’
So she kissed him and let him go. What else could she do? So long as he was safe, that was all that mattered. But she felt very much alone.
On the Thursday after the feast of St Mark the Evangelist, in the twenty-third year of the reign of King Edward – that is, on a wet April day in the Year of Our Lord 1295 – in the great hall of the royal manor of Lyndhurst, the court of the New Forest met in solemn session.
It was an impressive scene. From the walls of the hall, alternating with splendid hangings, hung the antlers of great bucks and stags. Presiding over all, in a blackened oak chair set on a dais at the front, the Forest justice was resplendent in a green tunic and crimson cloak. Assisting him, also in oak chairs, were the four gentlemen verderers, who acted as magistrates and coroners and ran the lower Court of Attachments. The foresters and the agisters, who were responsible for all the stock pastured on the Forest, were also present. From each of the villages, or vills as they
were called, came representatives to render account for any crimes committed there. The court was also assisted by a jury of twelve gentlemen of standing in the region. Any man accused of a serious offence could, if he chose, ask that this jury should decide his innocence or guilt. The king liked juries and encouraged their use. Though not obligatory, many chose a jury trial.
Today the prior of Beaulieu had also appeared, the abbot being still away on the king’s business. Two sheriffs from neighbouring counties had come with young Martell and his friends. It was a long time since there had been such a gathering and the hall was packed with spectators.
‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez,’ the clerk called out. ‘All manner of persons who have any presentments to make, this court is now in session.’
There were a number of cases to be heard, concerning the usual matters. Some were forest offences. All venison cases automatically went to the Forest court. So did crimes against the king’s peace. Civil cases between parties often came up too.
All through the morning the business went on. A fellow had stolen wood from the Forest. Another had made an illegal
assart
of land. One of the vills had failed to report a dead buck within its boundaries. Life in the Forest did not change much. But had a forester from Rufus’s time been brought there, he would have observed one difference. For whereas the Norman forest law had been designed, with its mutilations and killings, to punish and frighten the people, the accommodation between the monarch and his Forest folk had long ago been reached, even in the most formal court. There was no mutilation. Only the most habitual felons were hung. The penalty for almost all offences was a fine. The guilty party was ‘in mercy’ or ‘amerced’ a sum. And even this varied according to the wealth of the offender. A poor man amerced sixpence at the last court, who had been unable to pay, was let off. Many of the fines
for encroachments on crown land were repeated so automatically in the records of court after court that they were, in effect, rents paid for illegal tenancy. Pledges were taken from the better-off that their neighbours would pay their fines, or behave themselves in future. The law in the Forest, as elsewhere in Plantagenet England, was a common-sense and communal affair.
Finally, some time after noon, they came to the Beaulieu business.
It is presented that on the Friday before the Feast of St Matthew last, Roger Martell, Henry de Damerham and others did enter the Forest with bows and arrows, dogs and greyhounds, to harm the venison …
The charge, which would be inserted in the court record in Latin, was read out by the clerk. It gave exact details of what the poachers did and was not contested. All threw themselves on the mercy of the court. The justice looked at them severely while the forest folk in the hall listened carefully.
‘This is a venison offence, carried out in open contempt of the law, by those who, by reason of their position, should know better. It will not be tolerated. You are amerced as follows: ‘Will atte Wood, half a mark.’ Poor Will. A stiff fine. Two of his cousins stood surety and he was given a year to pay it. The other local men in the party all got the same.
Next came the turn of the young gentlemen: five pounds each – fifteen times the amount of the Forest men. This was only just. Finally, the justice came to Martell.
‘Roger Martell. You were, without question, the leader of these malefactors. You led them to the grange. You took deer. You are also a young man of substance.’ He paused. ‘The king himself was not amused to hear about this matter. You are amerced the sum of one hundred pounds.’
A collective gasp. The two sheriffs looked shattered. It was a stupendous fine, even for a rich landowner; and it was
also very clear that King Edward himself had approved it beforehand. Royal disfavour. Martell went white as a sheet. He would either be selling land or losing his income for many a year. Manly though he was, he visibly shook.
The court had only just started to buzz, however, when the justice said sharply to the clerk: ‘Now then, what about this lay brother?’
And again, the courtroom grew quiet. Luke was one of the Prides. There was a lot of interest. Near the back of the court Mary strained to hear every word.
The case against Luke was less clear.
‘First,’ the clerk announced, ‘that he gave shelter to the malefactors at the grange. Second, that he was in league with them. Third that he attacked an abbey monk, Brother Matthew, who sought to prevent the poachers from entering the grange.’
‘Is the abbey represented?’ the justice demanded.
John of Grockleton raised his claw, and a moment later Brother Matthew and three of the lay brothers stood with him before the justice.
The justice, naturally, was well acquainted with the facts from the steward, but there were aspects of the business he did not like.
‘You refuse to take responsibility for this lay brother?’
‘We disown him utterly,’ said the prior.
‘The charge says he was in league with these poachers. Presumably because he let them into the grange?’
‘What other explanation is possible?’ said Grockleton.
‘I should think he might have been frightened of them.’
‘They offered no violence,’ remarked the clerk.
‘That’s true. Now what about this attack?’ He turned to Brother Matthew.
‘Well.’ Brother Matthew’s kindly face was a little embarrassed. ‘When Martell refused to take his wounded companion away, I’m afraid I attacked him with a staff. Brother Luke grabbed a spade and swung it, and broke the
staff. Then the spade hit me on the head.’
‘I see. Was this lay brother your enemy?’
‘Oh no. Quite the reverse.’
Grockleton’s claw shot up. ‘Which proves that he must have been in league with Martell.’
‘Or was trying to prevent this monk from starting a fight.’
‘I must confess,’ Brother Matthew said mildly, ‘I did wonder that myself, afterwards.’
‘Brother Matthew is too kind, Justice,’ the prior cut in. ‘His judgement is too forgiving.’
It was at this point that the justice decided he really did not like Grockleton. ‘So he ran?’ he continued.
‘He ran,’ chimed Grockleton definitively.
‘Why the devil isn’t the abbot trying him over his assault of this monk?’
‘He is expelled from the order. We are here to prosecute him,’ said Grockleton.
‘He’s not here, I suppose?’ Heads were shaken. ‘Very well, then.’ He eyed the prior with distaste. ‘Since he belonged to the abbey at the time of this crime, if such it was, and was within the Great Close, you do realize that you are responsible for producing him, don’t you?’
‘I?’
‘You. The abbey. Of course. For his non-appearance, therefore, the abbey is amerced. Two pounds.’
The prior went bright red. All round the court there were smiles.
‘I’m sorry he isn’t here to defend himself,’ the justice went on, ‘but there it is. The law takes its course. As the offence seems to be a felony and he’s not here, I have no option. Let him be exacted and, if he doesn’t appear at the next court, outlawed.’
From her position at the back, Mary listened with a heavy heart. Exacted: that just meant he must be produced. And outlawed? Technically it signified he was outside the law. You couldn’t be harboured by anyone; you could even be
killed with impunity. You had no rights. A powerful sanction.
If only Luke had turned up. Brother Adam, the clever monk, had been right. Luke had underestimated the good sense of the court. It was obvious that the justice was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. But what could she do? Luke had gone and no one even knew where he was. She could have wept.