Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [202]
At a nod from the earldorman, Port lowered his arm and began to bind it up again.
“Have you any other injury?”
Port shook his head.
“But he struck me four times,” he added.
“The number of blows makes no difference,” Wulfhere reminded him.
“Four times,” Port repeated obstinately, and many in the crowd smiled; for his meticulous precision was so well known that there was a local saying: when grain is ground, Port counts each grain.
The injury had taken place two weeks before, in that very market place. Sigewulf, a local farmer, had left his horse straying in the street while he was drinking in one of the booths by the market. When he had reeled out in the dusk, he had seen Port, who was leading his horse to a post to tether it, and in his befuddled state he had decided that the fellow was trying to steal the animal. Furious, he had lurched towards him; there had been a scuffle; he had drawn his sword, waved it wildly, and as Port had raised his arm, the accident had occurred. He did not remember striking four times; but Port was adamant that he had.
Now it was Sigewulfs turn to tell his story. He was a short, thickset man whose sullen manner, even when he was sober, did not inspire confidence.
“Port attacked me,” he said. “I struck him once, not four times; it was self-defence. He tried to steal my horse.”
He finished. He knew the crowd was against him, but it did not matter; nor did it matter that his version of the events was improbable. For the Anglo-Saxon court took no account of evidence.
The trial had now reached its crucial stage. It was time to hear the oath helpers. At a sign from Port, three men stepped forward into the circle and announced their names and ranks. All were churls: small, free farmers.
“Upon the blood of Christ,” each repeated, “I swear that Port’s accusation is true.”
Immediately, three churls stepped forward and swore similarly on behalf of Sigewulf.
This was the ancient oath swearing upon which Saxon justice turned. No evidence was examined, no jury asked to decide on the merits of the case: but the number of oath swearers each side could produce, together with the rank of the swearer, decided the outcome. The oath of a slave counted for nothing; the word of a churl, as a free peasant, had weight. The word of a thane, a noble, outweighed that of any number of churls; an earldorman outweighed a thane; the word of the king, of course, could not be questioned.
The apparent stalemate between the parties was broken however, as a splendid figure now stepped into the circle.
He was a tall, well-built man in his forties. He had been standing quietly at one side of the circle with a group of young men and a girl whose strikingly blond good looks marked them out as his children. He carried himself with an air of easy authority; his blue eyes seemed amused, and as he came forward, Sigewulf’s face looked more depressed than ever.
“Aelfwald the thane,” he announced calmly. “I swear that Port’s words are true.”
There was a murmur from the crowd, followed by silence. No thane stepped forward for Sigewulf. The case was over.
Wulfhere looked at the three elderly men before announcing the verdict.
“The decision is for Port,” the three men agreed, without hesitation.
“So be it,” Wulfhere announced. “The wergild will be paid for his hand. His lord will be compensated accordingly.”
No system of law was more important than the ancient code of the wergild. Under the wergild system, every Anglo-Saxon, in common with other Germanic and Scandinavian peoples, knew the exact value of his life, and that depended on his rank. The life of a churl was worth two hundred shillings; that of a thane, like Aelfwald, six times as much, and the price to be paid for an injury, like the loss of a hand or a leg, was calculated in proportion. It was for this reason that it had been necessary for Port to show his injury to the court: the loss of a hand was one thing; but if he had