Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [85]
A short shriek of alarm came from the crowd as a dozen of Fulrad’s retainers pushed their way to the front. They were armed with swords, and they looked like men who knew how to use them.
Gerold’s men moved to counter them, their hands on their half-drawn swords. Gerold stayed them with a gesture of his hand.
“In the Emperor’s name”—Gerold’s voice rang out, steely as a knife blade—“judgment in this case has been rendered and received.” His cool indigo eyes stared Fulrad down. “Call the next case, Frambert.”
Frambert did not answer. He had slid out of his seat and was hiding under the table.
Several moments passed in tense silence, the restive, murmuring crowd utterly stilled.
Gerold sat back in his chair, giving every appearance of confidence and ease, but his right hand dangled carelessly above his sword, so close his fingertips brushed the cold steel.
Abruptly, with a muttered curse, Fulrad spun on his heel. Grabbing Tenbert roughly by the arm, he dragged him toward the door. Fulrad’s men followed, the crowd giving way before them. As they passed through the door, Fulrad struck Tenbert a hard blow to the head. The boy’s yelp of pain sounded through the hall, and the crowd exploded into raucous, tension-breaking laughter.
Gerold smiled grimly. If he knew anything about human nature, Tenbert was in for quite a beating. Perhaps it would teach him a lesson, perhaps not. Either way, it could no longer help the murdered girl. But her family would receive part of her wergeld. With it, they would be able to buy their freedom and build a better life for themselves, their remaining children, and their children’s children.
Gerold signaled his men; they resheathed their swords and withdrew to their positions behind the judicial table.
Frambert crawled out from under the table and reoccupied his seat with an air of ruffled dignity. His face was pale, and his voice shook as he read off the last case. “Ermoin, the miller, and his wife complain of their daughter, that she has willfully and against their express command taken a slave to husband.”
Again the crowd parted to let pass an elderly couple, gray haired, patrician, robed in fine cloth—testimony to Ermoin’s success in his trade. Behind them came a youth, dressed in the worn and tattered tunic of a slave, and finally a young woman, who entered with head modestly bowed.
“My lord.” Ermoin spoke without waiting to be addressed. “You see before you our daughter, Hildegarde, joy of our aging hearts, the sole surviving child of eight born to us. She has been tenderly reared, my lord—too tenderly, as we have learned to our grief. For she has repaid our loving kindness with willful disobedience and ingratitude.”
“What redress do you seek from this court?” Gerold asked.
“Why, the choice, my lord,” Ermoin said with surprise. “The spindle or the sword. She must choose, as the law requires.”
Gerold looked grave. In his career as missus he had presided over one other such case; he did not relish witnessing another.
“The law, as you say, provides for such a circumstance. But it seems harsh, especially for one who has been raised so—tenderly. Is there no other way?”
Ermoin took his meaning. The man price could be paid, the boy bought out of slavery and made a freedman.
“No, my lord.” He shook his head vehemently.
“Very well,” Gerold said resignedly. There was no way to avoid it—the girl’s parents knew the law and would insist on carrying out the ugly business to its conclusion.
“Bring a spindle,” Gerold commanded. “And Hunric”—he gestured to one of his men—“lend me your sword.” He would not use his own weapon; it had never yet bitten into undefended flesh, nor ever would while Gerold carried it.
Some moments of bustle and commotion ensued while a spindle was procured from a nearby house.
The girl looked up as it was carried in. Her father spoke sharply to her, and she quickly dropped her eyes. But in that brief moment, Gerold got a glimpse of her face. She was exquisite—huge carnelian eyes islanded in a sea of