Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [83]
“My lord.” Frambert spoke quietly into his ear. “I can vouch for Hunald. He is a fine man, a generous man, and this claim against him is falsely brought.”
Below the level of the table, out of sight of the crowd, Frambert played with a magnificent ring, an amethyst set in silver, engraved with the figure of an eagle. He twirled it round his middle finger so Gerold could see how it gleamed in the light.
“Ah, yes, a most generous man.” Frambert slipped the ring off his finger. “Hunald wished me to tell you that it is yours. A gesture of his appreciation for your support.” A small, tentative smile played at the corners of his lips.
Gerold took the ring. It was a magnificent piece of work, the finest he had ever seen. He handled it, admiring its weight and the perfect workmanship of its artisan. “Thank you, Frambert,” he said decisively. “This makes my judgment easier.”
Frambert’s smile widened into a broad, conspiratorial grin.
Gerold turned to Hunald. “You wish to submit yourself to the judgment of God.”
“Yes, my lord.” Hunald swelled with confidence, having witnessed the exchange between Gerold and Frambert. The servant with the box of relics stepped forward, but Gerold waved him back.
“We will seek God’s judgment through the judicium aquae ferventis.”
Hunald and Abo looked blank; like everyone else in the room, they knew no Latin.
“Kesselfang,” Gerold translated.
“Kesselfang!” Hunald blanched; he had not thought of this. Ordeal by boiling water was a well-known form of trial, but it had not been employed in this part of the Empire for some years.
“Bring the caldron,” Gerold commanded.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the room dissolved into a chaotic bustle of conversation and activity. Several of the scabini rushed outside to search the nearby houses for a pot with water already on the boil. Minutes later they returned, carrying a black iron caldron, deep as a man’s arm from top to bottom, filled with steaming hot water. Placed on the hearth in the center of the room, the water soon foamed and bubbled.
Gerold nodded, satisfied. Given Hunald’s talent for bribery, it might have been a smaller pot.
Hunald scowled. “My lord Count, I protest!” Fear had rendered him indifferent to appearances. “What about the ring?”
“My thought exactly, Hunald.” Gerold held the ring up for all to see, then threw it into the caldron. “On the accused’s suggestion, this ring shall be the servitor of God’s judgment.”
Hunald swallowed hard. The ring was small and slippery; it would be hellishly difficult to retrieve. But he could not refuse the trial without admitting his guilt and returning Abo’s cows—and they were worth well over seventy solidi. He cursed the foreign count who was so inexplicably immune to the mutually beneficial exchange of favors that had characterized his dealings with other missi. Then he took a deep breath and plunged his arm into the pot.
His face creased with pain as the boiling water seared his skin. Frantically he groped round the bottom of the pot, searching for the ring. A howl of anguish broke from his lips as it slipped through his hand. His tortured fingers scuttled after it in pursuit and—praise God!—closed upon it. He withdrew his hand and held the ring aloft.
“Aaaaaaah.” A fascinated moan passed through the crowd as they saw Hunald’s arm. Blisters and boils were already starting to form over the angry red surface of his skin.
“Ten days,” Gerold announced, “shall be the time of God’s judgment.”
There was a stir from the crowd, but it held no tone of protest. Everyone understood the law: if the wounds on Hunald’s hand and arm healed within ten days, his innocence was proved, and the cattle were his. If not, he was guilty of theft, and the cattle would be returned to their rightful owner, Abo.
Privately Gerold doubted the wounds would heal in so short a time. This was what he had intended, for he had little doubt that Hunald was guilty of the crime. And if Hunald’s wounds should happen to heal