The Burning Stone

The blow was a hard one and easier to absorb alone. She thanked him and went on her way, and as she rode down into the holding she noticed the tight silence of the local people and, like its counterpoint, the constant whispering of the court’s servants, who seemed to be enjoying themselves rather more than they ought given the grave nature of the charges and the death of a good man. Was it in the nature of humankind that they should take pleasure in another’s misfortune?



She handed her horse off to a groom, brushed the worst of the dirt off her clothing, and made her way to the hall, a fine timber edifice with whitewashed walls and huge roof beams painted with tar to keep the vermin out. She had never been here before, although Liath had visited here a year or more ago and told Hanna a little of what had transpired between her and Lord Alain. It seemed now that fate would conspire to keep her and Liath apart. God alone knew where Liath was now, and in what condition. And she had forgotten to ask Ingo about Hugh.



Her old comrades Folquin and Stephen were standing on guard at the door into the great hall, and they clapped her on the back and whispered greetings, then let her through although perhaps a hundred people had gathered outside, forbidden entrance. And no wonder: so many had crowded inside that it was reeking and hot despite the cool, damp spring weather. Someone had thought to strew mint in with the rushes on the floor, but the sweat of so many people overwhelmed any other odor. She had to elbow her way forward because people were so intent on the scene before them that they took no notice of her Eagle’s badge.



It was slow work. Somewhere at the front of the room, people were giving testimony about Lavastine, his first marriage, the horrible death of his only known legitimate child, and the mistress he had once slept with who had died in childbirth.



She squeezed past two stewards dressed in fine linen, like chickens tarted up as swans as her mother would have said, but fetched up behind a hugely broad nobleman who seemed immune to her nudging. He was short enough that she could see over his shoulder and glimpse the dais, where Henry sat on his throne. The king looked tired. He had lines in his face that hadn’t been there six months ago. Hathui stood behind him; she had mastered the blank face of the loyal servingwoman. His niece Tallia sat to his left, Helmut Villam to his right. On opposite sides sat Lord Alain and Lord Geoffrey, the disputants.



Henry lifted a hand, and a steward called forward the next witness, a heavyset older woman who, by the evidence of her stained apron, had evidently been called in from the kitchens. The nobleman in front of Hanna kept shifting as she tried to press forward, and she just couldn’t get past him and by now was wedged between him, a bench, and a table. The atmosphere in the hall was so tense and focused that she hadn’t the courage to shout out, as Hathui would have, “Make way for the King’s Eagle,” even though she had the right to do so.



She shoved her way up on the bench beside a trio of finely-dressed boys and was able to hear as the cook told her story with remarkable self-possession.



“Yes, Your Majesty, that would have been Cecily. She’s the girl we all knew was Count Lavastine’s mistress, may she rest in peace, but she wasn’t the one who gave birth to Count Alain. She gave birth to a misshapen lad, our Lackling. Alas, he died two years ago, poor child. Fell in the river and drowned, we think, for his body was never recovered.”



“You don’t think he might have run off, that he might still be alive?” asked Hathui.



“Nay, Eagle, he’d never have left here. That’s how we know he died. He vanished one day and never come back.”



“Did Count Lavastine know that this boy Lackling was his mistress’ child?” asked Henry.



She looked nervous then, wringing her hands in her apron. “Nay, Your Majesty. A poor beggar woman was brought in that same night, and both she and her child died, so we said that Lackling was hers and Cecily’s babe was the one who’ died. I don’t suppose more than three of us knew the truth, and we all swore never to speak of it, for the young count had just gotten betrothed and his bride was a jealous woman, all full of her own hurt feelings, may God grant her peace. We wanted to protect him.”



“So you lied.”



“So we did, Your Majesty. I’m sorry for the sin, but I suppose I’d do the same thing again. It’s for God to judge the matter, not me.”



“Who knew the truth?”



“Well, then, I knew, and Deacon Marian knew, and old Agnes knew. Deacon and old Agnes attended every birth here, and I helped Agnes when she needed helping, bringing her clothes and water and ale for the laboring women, and so on. They’re both gone, now, may God bless them. I’m the only one living who attended those births, for there was four babes born in the space of three nights. One was the poor dead beggar child, may God rest him and his mother. One was Lackling. One was Count Alain. And the last was a tiny little thing, a girl I never saw again because her mother and father fled with her the next morning though the poor woman was still weak. I think they were afraid, for the other three mothers died. They thought it an ill omen, They were afraid she would die, too, if they stayed.”