London - Edward Rutherfurd [157]
Yet still Michael could not agree. The pragmatic common sense of his Saxon ancestors stood in the way. Either it was or it was not an ancient charter. Either he was telling the truth or it was a lie. “I’m sorry, but I wish to leave,” he repeated.
“And where will you go?”
Brother Michael bowed his head. That was something he had already arranged. As he told the abbot, however, that worldly-wise monk stared in astonishment and declared: “You must be mad.”
The crowd fell silent. It was still early. At a nearby monastery the bell for the morning service of terce had just finished ringing. At a sign from the bailiff, young Henry Le Blond reluctantly removed the cloak from his shoulders and stepped forward. Despite the fact that it was a warm summer morning, he shivered.
Hidden in the crowd, Pentecost Silversleeves watched with horror.
The place where they stood was a large, open space, about four hundred yards across, that lay just outside the north-west corner of the city wall. Today, its muddy surface caked dry by the sun, it looked like a huge, dusty parade ground. On its western edge the ground sloped down to the gully along which the Holborn stream flowed before it became the Fleet. Near the centre stood a group of elm trees and before them a horse pond.
This was Smithfield. On Saturdays there was usually a horse market there, and sometimes executions took place at the elms. At the horse pond, beside which the crowd of four hundred was now standing, certain important judicial proceedings were held.
By the water’s edge, as well as the man, naked but for a loincloth stood two other youths, two bailiffs, a dozen aldermen, a sheriff, and the Justiciar of England himself.
A master craftsman had been attacked and one of his apprentices killed. The culprits were all known because, in the hope of getting off lightly, they had turned king’s evidence and all accused each other. The crime had taken place the very night of the prince’s coronation. King Henry had been so angry that he had ordered his representative to deal with the matter personally. “I want them all tried,” he had stipulated, “within three days.”
Now, at a nod from the justiciar, the bailiffs tied the young man’s hands behind his back and bound his feet. Then, taking hold of his ankles and shoulders, they lifted him up and began to swing him.
“One!” the crowd roared. “Two! Three!” Le Blond’s body arched through the air and splashed into the water. Suddenly silent, the crowd watched expectantly.
Henry Le Blond was on trial for his life.
There were many kinds of trial in England. In civil disputes, freemen could choose trial by jury before King Henry’s impartial justices, but for serious felonies like murder or rape, which carried a penalty of death, the matter was felt to be too grave to leave to the imperfect judgement of men. So, despite the fact that many churchmen no longer approved, these cases were submitted directly to the judgement of God through the ancient trials by ordeal. For women this usually meant holding a red-hot iron and then seeing if the burns healed innocently or festered with guilt. For men it meant the speedier ordeal of trial by water. It was very simple. If young Le Blond floated, he was guilty.
Surviving this ordeal was difficult. To prove innocence, he must sink, and the best chance of doing that was to reduce buoyancy by expelling all the air from the lungs. But then, of course, if he wasn’t quickly fished out he would drown. Frightened men instinctively took a deep breath and floated. The crowd watched in silence. Then roared.
Henry Le Blond was floating.
It should have been him. He should be there with Le Blond and the other two. Oh God!
But Pentecost Silversleeves was free, for a very simple reason: he had taken holy orders.
Of all the Church’s privileges, none was more useful than the right of any