Chapter Thirteen

Then it was morning, and they came for me. It was the first time I had been outside my tiny prison since midsummer, the day I had held Conor in my arms and heard him promise to bring my brothers back when I was ready. Now it seemed I might never be ready. Blinking in the brightness long denied me, stumbling on legs reluctant to obey me, I was conveyed none too gently down to the hall, which was set up for a formal hearing of the folkmoot. There was a long table across the end of the room, with four oak chairs in place, and here sat Richard of Northwoods, attired in his black velvet, and beside him a rotund man in the plain dark robes of a cleric. This, I supposed, was the bishop’s man. There were two record keepers seated there, one a tonsured youth with a pale, serious face, the other the household scribe of Harrowfield. Ink pots, quills, and neat piles of parchment were set on the board before them, with small trays of fine sand to sprinkle on for drying. Lanterns were lit near the doorways, for the sun had not made an appearance between the rain clouds and the room was quite dark. A warm fire burned on the great hearth. Around the other three sides of the hall benches were set, and here sat the tenants of Harrowfield, as required by the law. There were many there that I had seen before, and some that were strangers. There were a fair bit of noise, what with old friends catching up on news, and swift bargains being struck over a few pigs or a fine ewe while the opportunity offered. As they watched me walk to the high stool in the very center of the hall, all of them went quiet.

Richard rose slowly to his feet.

“This moot commences,” he pronounced. “In the absence of my nephew, Lord Hugh of Harrowfield, master of these estates, I will be presiding over the hearings. There are various matters to be heard, and all of these bar one I carry over to tomorrow, or the day after. Food and drink will be provided to all, for as long as the business of the moot takes.” A mutter of approval. “For today, there is a single, deep, and weighty matter to be decided. This concerns the young woman known as Jenny, who stands before you accused of several offenses, each one of which is punishable by death, should the case against her be proven.” All eyes turned toward me, where I sat on the stool, swaying slightly. I did feel rather strange. Whether it was from lack of sleep or lack of food, or the unaccustomed presence of so many people, so much light and noise, my sight was blurring and my head fuzzy. I must try to concentrate.