Missives from Isolation #9 – Details
More Curtis Brown for you this week – this time with a little actual fact behind it. Well, sort of. The exercise was to write to a prompt (as usual), but then to go back over the story, do a little research, and insert some bits of context and actual historical/real fact to enhance the story.
I don’t usually write historical fiction – and I still don’t – but I’ve done enough studying over the years to be able to drop some real bits of context in something that, while it’s not technically historical, still draws on real historical events and concepts. I tend to use Rome a lot – this time I went medieval. Take a look, if you fancy it.
The King wasn’t quite what he’d expected. For one thing, he was shorter. A lot shorter. That didn’t stop him from looming over the supplicant as he knelt before the carven throne, set as it was at the top of the stepped dais, high-backed and ornate. The King still held the attention of everyone in the audience-hall – and there were a lot of people in the hall, knots of retainers and knights hanging around pillars, ranks of men-at-arms lining the walls, noblemen in their own seats at the high tables to either side of the dais – and, of course, the long and winding line of petitioners that wove out of the audience-hall and into the castle bailey beyond. The peasants watched in awe of the king’s majesty, the nobles of the court watched with an aloof respect – the local nobles watched with sullen gazes. The court had been in town for two weeks – all hundred nobles and their several hundred hangers-on. The town’s larders wouldn’t last much longer.
The King sat there on his carven throne, and held every eye, straight-backed and regal, his crown glistening gold in the bright sunlight that lanced through the high windows.
But he was short. He looked to be barely taller than young Edward, and young Edward was far from his full growth yet, still with a child’s squat rotundity. The supplicant was a head higher than his son – and almost that much higher, it seemed, than the lord and master who held the lives of everyone in the room in the palm of his hand. No wonder he has us all kneel, he thought to himself, and had to stifle what would have been the most inappropriate – and shortest – laugh of his life.
“Rise, Goodman Pyrlig.” He rose automatically, and was relieved to see that the stepped dais still set the King two feet above him. How do they not notice? he thought, glancing around at the great and good of the itinerant court. They were nobles, tall and well-fed – taller than Pyrlig for certain. How do they not stop and stare at this tiny little toy king?
“What do you bring before the King?” snapped the Steward, and Pyrlig jolted back to reality, finding the King’s steely eyes fixed upon his own. They were bright grey, the silver of good steel, a drawn sword. They were steady as stone. That’s how, he thought to himself as he swallowed, searching for words. It didn’t matter how tall you were when you were a battle-proven, red-handed tyrant who held the country in an iron grip that wouldn’t slacken for blood nor money. It didn’t take a tall man to put a blade where it hurt. But though they were sharp eyes, they were dull with the fog of boredom. Pyrlig thought of the length of the line behind him, and understood, and felt his heart sinking even before he’d begun.
“An appeal, lord Steward,” he stammered, finding his voice and finding it wanting. He’d been waiting for two hours to even get into the hall, travelled twenty miles to even reach the court as it passed, arrived on the very last day of its session before the nobles packed up and rode north to the next county. This was not the time to mumble. “Lord King. Against a judgement in the county court at the last assizes.”
“Against yourself?” It was the King who had spoken – much, it seemed, to the Steward’s chagrin.
“Against a man of my village, lords.”
“You are its headman?”
“Yes, lord.”
“What was the charge?” the Steward asked, reclaiming his self-importance and authority.
“A theft, lord,” Pyrlig said, “that he did not commit. He was imprisoned after the trial.”
“But you think he did not commit the crime?”
“I know it, lord.”
“Did you not think to submit evidence?” the Steward asked, sneering with condescension. With the eyes of a dozen nobles on him, Pyrlig was very conscious of the shabbiness of his best suit of clothes, his stubbled chin. The King sat above him, not really looking down anymore. His interest had vanished. He must have seen a hundred cases already today, Pyrlig thought, his heart sinking yet lower.
“We tried,” he replied to the Steward, feeling a little anger kindle in his breast. “But when we came to the trial at the appointed time we found that our judge had already pronounced sentence.”
“As is his right,” the Steward countered. “If a royally appointed representative sees fit to pronounce sentence then there is no need for other evidence to be submitted.”
“We had the right, lord,” Pyrlig said, his hands starting to shake with anger. “We had the right to speak in his defence, and we were denied. So we wished to appeal.”
The King grunted, shifting in his seat – and Pyrlig was amazed to see cushions there, cushions that made him seem to sit even higher. How small is this man? Is he a child in a false beard?
“Such appeals should be brought to the local assizes,” the Steward said. “A county judgement has no place in the royal court.”
“If it please you, lord Steward,” Pyrlig said, almost stumbling as he saw the man’s fury at the interruption, “our county court will not sit for another sixmonth.”
The Steward raised an eyebrow at that – as did the King.
“County assizes are to be held every two months at the least regular,” the Steward said. “Are you accusing your judge of negligence?” It was clear what the Steward thought of a mere village headman levelling such a claim at a nobleman – a nobleman of sufficient wealth and influence to be trusted with managing the law of an entire county.
“I do not – I cannot – ” Pyrlig stammered, and the Steward seized on it.
“If you have a complaint of the county court, then you must level it at the county court, not the royal,” he said. “A basic understanding of the law of the land seems to have escaped you. You are dismissed – ”
“Which county is this?” asked the King, as though he hadn’t heard the Steward speak at all. Over the portly man’s spluttering, Pyrlig cleared his throat.
“Wincanteon, lord.”
“De la Vega’s eyre,” the King mused. “And he has proclaimed no assizes for six months?”
“He informed us that he would be travelling, lord,” Pyrlig managed. “Abroad. So he could not sit. He left immediately after the trial.” But not before seeing Jonas locked up.
“And he left no deputy to judge in his stead?” the King asked. The Steward was desperately trying to catch his master’s eye, but the steely gaze was fixed on Pyrlig now, and Pyrlig did his best to return it.
“No, lord.”
“Hmm.”
The King sat on his carven throne for a long moment. Then he clapped his hands.
“Well, then. If de la Vega will not come to the court, the court shall come to de la Vega.”
He hopped down from his throne in a cascade of ermine and silk, striding past his Steward and catching Pyrlig around the shoulders with his arm – well, almost around the waist given how much shorter he was. Pyrlig couldn’t help but walk with him, stumbling away from the dais in the King’s firm grip.
“My lord!” the Steward squeaked, outraged at the breach of etiquette. “You cannot mean – ”
“Oh, the rest of you need not come,” the King called over his shoulder. “I’ll take my housecarls. The rest of you should carry on.”
“But lord, the court – ”
“Will be entirely fine in your capable hands, Matthias!” The king was shouting now, and Pyrlig bowed his head, trying not to meet the shocked gazes of the nobles and the angry glares of the other petitioners waiting in line behind him. The King stopped at the entrance to the hall, turning to face the other supplicants. Pyrlig cowered at his side, held there in an iron grip.
“The Lord Steward will hear the rest of your cases,” the King said, nodding at the Steward, who blanched pure white. “I will not have it said that justice goes undone in my lands.”
“Lord,” Pyrlig managed at last, whispering beneath the outraged murmurs of the assembled nobility, “I do not – ”
“Goodman,” the King hissed back, and Pyrlig glanced down at the monarch to see a well-hidden, vindictive smile beneath his beard, “I am sick to death of this pomp and circumstance. You have a case, and among many other things, I am the highest judge in this land.” He winked – actually winked at Pyrlig. “And that arsehole de la Vega’s probably got it coming.”
“I would never insult a member of the high nobility,” Pyrlig said weakly, and the King grinned.
“Of course not. But I would.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in a voice that belonged to a man twice his size.
“Lord Steward Matthias, the court is in your hands. I will meet you all at Banburgh in time for the next assizes, where justice will continue to be done. This is my command as your King.” He left that last word hanging in the silence for a long moment, before adding in a low voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the room, “And if anyone would like to argue with me, I will be more than happy to hear their grievances at…” He turned to Pyrlig, raising an eyebrow.
“Emoll, lord,” Pyrlig whispered.
“At the village of Emoll,” the King continued fluidly. “Where I will be handling grievances myself.” And Pyrlig noticed that the sword at the King’s hip, unlike the rest of his clothes, was as far from ceremonial as it was possible for an object to be.
“Lead on, Goodman Pyrlig,” the King said into the silence – and he turned, shoving Pyrlig ahead of him with a firm hand, and marched away from the royal court without a backward glance.
