“She understands well enough,” Richard said curtly, and this time it was quite obvious he was annoyed. “But she does not have the power of speech. Some malady has afflicted her tongue, I’m told.”

“If this is so, how can she account for herself? How can a fair hearing take place, if the accused cannot make her case? Has she someone to assist her?”

“She’ll manage well enough.” Richard’s tone was dismissive. “May I proceed with my statement?”

“I am far from satisfied. But go on by all means. Let us waste no time.”

It sounded damning, the way he set it all out. Even to me it sounded convincing. I thought it was a death sentence. Richard gave a fine performance, striding about the center of the hall between the packed benches, using the full range of his mellifluous voice from whisper to shout of outrage, telling the tale of how his nephew had brought a girl home from Erin with the best of intentions, how the moment folk saw her they knew she was up to no good, how she had wheedled and cajoled her way into the household and then turned against her husband as everyone would expect of a wild woman from the bogs of Erin. He told of the way I would listen to the talk after supper, the news of landholdings and trade and campaigns, and store it all up for future use. He described how he had caught me once, out on the hills by myself with no excuse. Why else would I run away from the house in secret, if not to meet one of my own kind and pass on information?

“This is conjecture,” said Father Dominic calmly, making a note on his parchment. “Where is the evidence of fact?”

“I’m coming to that.” Richard’s voice was sharp. I thought he suppressed his annoyance with an effort of will, for he must convince the folk of the moot as well as the holy father, if his judgment were to be accepted. Then he launched into the tale of the midsummer picnic, and how I had given myself away. He reached the climax of his story.

“I saw the girl, Jenny, go down the path by the river. A little later, thinking it might not be safe for her alone, I followed. There was one man ahead of me, my nephew’s young companion Benedict, son of William of Greystones. The young man has been fostered in this house. We both saw her; and we both saw the fellow she held fast in her arms. There was no question about what they had been doing. Ahem!” He cleared his throat, glancing at his sister in a show of reticence.

“What do you mean?” demanded Father Dominic. “Make yourself clear, for this is a most serious charge.”

“Well, they—er—to speak plainly, the fellow had very few clothes on, and the girl was—um—wrapping herself around him in a very—intimate—fashion.”

“You wish to add adultery to the charges?” Father Dominic dipped and wrote. “And then?” he said.