Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [82]
Frambert checked the list of complainants, written on a strip of parchment eight inches wide, its segments stitched together end to end to form a roll some fifteen feet long.
“Three more today, my lord,” Frambert said.
Gerold sighed wearily. He was tired and hungry; his patience for dealing with the endless stream of petty accusations, countercharges, and complaints was wearing thin. He wished he were back at Villaris, with Joan.
Joan. How he missed her—her husky voice, her rich, deep laughter, her fascinating gray-green eyes, which regarded him with such knowledge and love. But he must not think of her. That was why he had agreed to serve as missus after all—to put distance between them, give him time to regain control of the ungovernable intensity of emotion that had been building inside him.
“Call the next case, Frambert,” Gerold commanded, putting a check on his errant thoughts.
Frambert lifted the roll of parchment and read aloud, straining to be heard over the buzzing crowd.
“Abo complains of his neighbor Hunald, that he has unlawfully and without just compensation taken his livestock from him.”
Gerold nodded knowingly. The situation was all too common. In these illiterate times, rare was the property owner who could keep written account of his holdings; the absence of such records left his fields open to all kinds of thievery and false dealing.
Hunald, a big, florid-faced man, dressed ostentatiously in scarlet linen, stepped forward to deny the charge.
“The beasts are mine. Bring me the reliquary.” He pointed to the box of holy relics on the high table. “Before God”—he posed dramatically, raising his arms toward Heaven—“I will swear to my innocence on these sacred bones.”
“They are my cows, my lord, not Hunald’s, as well he knows,” responded Abo, a small man whose quiet demeanor and simple dress made him a study in contrast with Hunald. “Hunald can swear as he likes; it will not change the truth.”
“What, Abo, do you question God’s judgment?” Hunald remonstrated. His voice registered the correct note of pious indignation, but Gerold caught the undertone of triumph. “Mark it, my lord Count, this is blasphemy!”
“Have you any proof the beasts are yours?” Gerold asked Abo.
The question was highly irregular; there were no laws of witness or evidence in Frankland. Hunald glowered at Gerold. What was this strange Frisian count trying to do?
“Proof?” This was a new idea; Abo had to think for a moment. “Well, Berta—that’s my wife—can name every one, and so can my four children, for they have known them since they were babes. They can tell you which ones have a temper when milked, and which prefer clover to grass.” Another thought struck him. “Bring me to them and let me call them; they will come to me readily, for they know the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand.” A tiny flicker of hope ignited in Abo’s eyes.
“Nonsense!” Hunald exploded. “Is this court supposed to accept the unthinking actions of dumb beasts before the sacred laws of Heaven? I demand just trial by compurgation. Bring the box of relics and let me swear!”
Gerold stroked his beard, considering. Hunald was the accused; he was within his rights to request the oath taking. God would not permit him to swear falsely with his hand on the holy relics, or so said the law.
The Emperor set great store by such trials, but Gerold had his doubts. There were certainly men who, caring more for the solid advantages of this world than for the vague and insubstantial terrors of the next, would not hesitate to lie. If it came to that, I would do it myself, Gerold thought, if the stakes were high enough. He would swear to a lie on a whole cartful of relics to protect the safety of anyone he loved.
Joan. Again her image rose irresistibly to his mind, and he