Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [261]
“I like your Sarisberie,” he remarked to Godefroi when the knight came to pay his respects. “Before he rebelled its bishop served me well; and now the diocese has made me rich.”
He admired the cathedral enormously, and told the canons:
“Whatever we say about Roger now he is dead, he certainly knew how to build.”
It was a few days before Christmas, when he was holding an open court in the castle hall in the presence of a group of magnates and knights which included Godefroi, that the king was surprised to see a curious party approaching. It consisted of William atte Brigge, John of Shockley, their wives, both walking demurely behind them and a little gaggle of witnesses. William, still flushed with his triumph in the matter of Godric Body and the pig, looked hard and confident; the farmer on the other hand was very pale and his mild blue eyes wore a startled, pained expression.
When they were asked what their business was, it was William who cried out:
“The king promised me justice here, when he camped before Devizes.”
As Stephen stared at the tanner, he dimly remembered, and he grinned.
“The fellow’s right, I did.” And turning to the knights he cried. “Let’s hear what he wants.”
As William explained his complaint, the king listened carefully. It was long and involved and after a time, he cut him short.
“You say this matter dates from the time of your wife’s grandfather?” William agreed. “That’s fifty years ago?” It was.
Stephen gazed around the hall. For all his faults, he was a clever man. He had already sized up the respective characters not only of William, but of the stolid, blue-eyed farmer who stood silent and woebegone throughout the tanner’s litany of complaint.
“We’ll grant you your wish,” he said finally. “Your case shall be tried.” He paused. “But not by jury.”
William’s face fell. Although the system was not yet in regular use, he had assumed quite reasonably that if he requested it, the king – who was well known to dislike violence – would grant him a trial by jury. For months the cunning farmer had been carefully preparing his evidence and, more important, coaching his chosen witnesses.
The king gazed at him imperturbably.
“This is an ancient quarrel, William atte Brigge. It shall be settled by the ancient and time-honoured means that applied in our predecessor’s reigns for all property disputes. I order a trial by battle.”
He leaned back in order to watch the reaction. The tanner’s brow had clouded. He was thinking furiously.
But a still more extraordinary change had come over John of Shockley. It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from his mind. For years he had dreaded the complex process of swearing and evidence, the intricate business of courts where, though he was by no means a fool, he felt trapped and helpless against the clever tanner. But now his brow cleared; his blue eyes lost their troubled look and suddenly gazed out with a clear, bold stare. The descendant of the family of Aelfwald the thane and Aelfgifu had no fear of fighting for his lands, if God was on his side. And he believed that He was.
The king, glancing from one to the other, smiled.
But William had not come so far for nothing.
“I have the right to choose a champion,” he stated.
Stephen frowned. The surly fellow was right, unfortunately. And no doubt he had the money to hire a thug who would kill this honest farmer. He wished he could deny it.
“Do you also wish to choose a champion to fight for you?” he asked John of Shockley hopefully.
But John of Shockley, if he was aware of his danger, seemed content to fight for himself.
There was an awkward pause.
And then Godefroi saw what he should do. Coolly, to the astonishment of the two parties, and the delighted grin of the king, he stepped forward.
“I am John of Shockley’s champion,” he announced.