The Highwayman

5

Long Roots With great effort, his limbs wearier this night than usual, old Father Jerak pulled on the brown robes set with the red trim that marked his station in the Church of Abelle. The news had just come in to him that an adulteress had been caught, and now, predictably, old Bernivvigar was demanding his rite of justice. Father Jerak could well imagine the scene of eager onlookers, and he had personally witnessed the look upon the Samhaist Bernivvigar's face several times in the past: the satisfaction, a calm so profound that it reeked of savagery, as if this act of brutal retribution and the willingness of the laird and the people to go along with it somehow denied the changes sweeping through the land with the ascendant Church of Abelle.

There came a soft knock on Jerak's door, and it creaked open. He turned to see brothers Bathelais and Reandu.

"Are you ready to go, father?" Bathelais asked, his tone appropriately somber.

"If anyone can ever be ready for such a journey as this," Jerak replied, and he started toward the door.

"The legacy of Samhaist justice," Bathelais said with a shrug that made it clear to Jerak that the younger man was not so upset by the rite.

"The woman is guilty," young Reandu declared rather bluntly, and both of the other monks turned their surprised gazes upon him. Reandu-a short man with close-cropped black hair and a solid, if diminutive, frame-shrank back beneath those looks.

"There is always the question of proportion, brother," Father Jerak quietly offered. "In this case, the proportion of sin to punishment was determined long ago, and it has not been within our province to modify its balance. Someday, perhaps, we will see a different measure of things and convince the lairds of our enlightened position. For now, though, our duty is to acquiesce to the law humbly and to bear witness to its legitimacy."

Jerak paused, as if considering his own words. "But it is a long journey."

The three monks swept up four other brothers before they had exited Chapel Pryd. By the time they had gotten outside, they could see the bonfire marking the ancient Stone of Judgment already burning brightly. "Try not to reveal your enjoyment of the spectacle, if indeed you do find it amusing," Laird Pryd said to his son. Lying on his goose-down bed and wearing only a cotton nightshirt that reached to his ankles, the Laird of Pryd Holding didn't seem quite so formidable this particular evening. Laird Pryd had taken ill that very day, and now his eyes were sunken and darkly ringed, contrasting starkly to the chalky color of his face.

"You are the eyes of Pryd this night," the laird went on. "Your presence sanctions the event under the laws of the holding."

Prydae, dressed in his full military regalia, bronze breastplate and all, bowed.

"You need do nothing but bid Bernivvigar to commence," Laird Pryd explained. "Take your seat and bear witness; the old Samhaist will preside over the course of events. He takes great pleasure in these things, you see."

Prydae felt a bit of hesitance, leading to an expression that his perceptive father did not miss. "This will not be a crime paid for with coin," Pryd said.

Prydae looked at his father directly and nodded.

"Bernivvigar is not to allow that in these times," Pryd went on. "The Samhaists feel the press of the Church of Abelle, you see, and what have they to offer the peasants but the surety of order contained within their codes of strict justice?" Pryd raised a hand and dropped it on Prydae's forearm. "You are prepared for this?"

Prydae shook his head at the whole question. "I will not disappoint you, father," he said, and he gave a low bow.

Laird Pryd waved him away.

As he exited the room, castle guardsmen sweeping up in his wake, Prydae considered the events. There could be little doubt of how the evening would proceed, given the claim of the wronged husband that he had actually caught his wife in the arms of another man. And, as his father had said, Prydae's role was minimal; he was just there to give the weight of law to the proceedings.

Prydae hardly even realized that he was rubbing his hands with anticipation as he moved out into the warm summer night.

Whatever he might feel while witnessing this particular form of punishment, it would surely be exciting.

He noted that the brothers of Abelle were already at the clearing. Old Father Jerak and the others stood and sat off to one side, many with their heads bowed and hands folded in prayer. Not far from them stood Rennarq. Prydae knew that the man had come out here, though Rennarq was not acting as an official of the laird this night. Prydae's father wouldn't allow that, for where the Samhaists were concerned, he didn't consider Rennarq to be possessed of objectivity.

Most of the townsfolk were in attendance as well, even many of the children. That surprised Prydae for a moment, but then he realized the point of it all. Harsh justice demonstrated civilization, of course, and reinforced societal expectations of behavior. Let the children learn these lessons young, and learn them well, and perhaps fewer of them would find themselves in the same situation as the guilty woman.

The guardsmen set the chairs they had brought from the castle in the proper place at the left side of the large, flat stone that old Bernivvigar would use as his dais, the customary spot for the Laird of Pryd to bear witness. When Prydae took the chair center and forward of the others, the customary seat of his father, the gathering predictably began to murmur and whisper among themselves.

Prydae stood up and stepped forward. "Laird Pryd is taken ill this night," he said loudly, silencing them all, then he offered a reassuring smile and patted his hands in the air to calm the gasps and fearful exclamations. "A minor case of the gripe, and nothing more. Laird Pryd has bidden me to serve as the voice, the eyes, and the ears of Castle Pryd this evening."

Nods of assent and even some scant cheering came back at Prydae, and he took his seat once more. He recognized the importance of this night then, all of a sudden. He was the obvious heir to Pryd Holding, as his two older siblings were female. There were rumors of half brothers, but they were all by women Laird Pryd had never formally recognized as wives, and so had no claim to the throne. No, it was Prydae's to hold, and soon, too, he believed. Often of late he had seen the weariness in his father's face when the formalities of the day had ended. Prydae's exploits in battle were helping to smooth the way to his ascent but presiding over so important an event as this, he realized, was no less vital. The people of the holding had to believe in him as their protector and as their adjudicator.

Only then did Prydae understand the significance of his father's advice to not reveal his amusement at the spectacle.

The crowd stirred and went quiet as the minutes turned to an hour. The bonfire marking the clearing before the stone-the signal from Bernivvigar of the significance of this night-burned low, casting them all in dim shadows.

Finally, a tall, lean figure made its way down the forest path and out onto the flat stone. The Samhaist did not bend with age, as did Father Jerak and even Laird Pryd. And Bernivvigar was taller than almost any other man in Pryd, standing above six and a half feet. He had wild, almost shaggy, gray hair and a long, thin beard that reached halfway down his chest. He wore his simple light green robe, the Samhaist habit, and sandals that revealed his dirty feet and his red-painted toenails. He carried an oaken staff that was nearly as tall as he, with a knobbed end that made it look more akin to a weapon than a walking stick. A necklace of canine teeth framed his beard and clacked when he walked or when he turned quickly to settle his sharp gaze on one or another of the onlookers.

He looked at Prydae only once, gave a slight nod, then squared up to face the general gathering and lifted his arms high.

"Who claims grievance?" he called. The crowd went completely silent, all eyes turning to the left of the stone, near where the monks were sitting.

A young man, his face covered in snot, his cheeks streaked with tears, stepped forth from that area and staggered up before the stone and the Samhaist, which put his head about level with Bernivvigar's feet. "I do," he said. "I seen them." He brought his arm up and wiped it across his dirty face.

"Bring forth the accused woman," Bernivvigar commanded.

The crowd parted and a group of men-soldiers of the Laird all-forced a young man and woman forward, prodding them with spears and slapping them with the flat sides of bronze swords. Another man, a commoner, bearing a sack in one hand and a pole ending in a small noose in the other, came out after them and moved toward the low-burning fire.

Prydae gave a profound sigh at the sight of the accused. He knew them, the woman at least, and understood that they were young-younger than he at eighteen by two or three years. Callen Duwornay was her name; he knew her family. Startled, Prydae realized that Callen was the daughter of one of Castle Pryd's stablemen.

She was quite a pretty young thing, and Prydae had many times thought of taking her for a night of his pleasure, as the laird and his offspring were wont and legally entitled to do. Her soft hair was the color of straw, and it hung below her shoulders, cascading from her face in silken layers. Her eyes were not the customary blue of the folk but a rich brown hue-not dark, but true brown. Her smile was bright and even, and often flashed-there was a life and lustiness about her, a scent of womanhood and enthusiasm that all fit together, in light of these charges, to Prydae.

Such a waste, he thought, and he worked earnestly to keep his expression impassive. He was bearing witness and not passing judgment. Some traditions overruled even the desires of the son of the laird.

As soon as her hands were untied, Callen brought them up to brush back the hair from her face, but since she was looking down, it fell right back.

"And the other?" Bernivvigar instructed.

A young man, barely Prydae's age, his blue eyes darting about like those of a terrified animal, stumbled through, jabbed hard by a spear and off balance because his hands were tightly tied behind his back. He seemed as if he could hardly draw breath or as if he were about to burst into tears at any moment.

"Are these the two?" Bernivvigar asked the cuckold.

"Aye, that's the one," said the wronged husband. "Oh, I seen him. Right on top o' her! And I paid good money for her. Silver coin and three sheep."

"Which will be repaid in full-nay, thrice-of course," Bernivvigar said, aiming his words and his glare at the cheating young man. "Thrice!" he repeated strongly.

"Y-yes, yes, me lord," the man stammered and he tried to bow, but tumbled against the hard facing of the stone that served as the Samhaist's platform, then fell. The crowd began to laugh and taunt, but the monks kept praying, and Prydae did well to keep his composure.

"You will be working for years to pay off the debt, you understand," Bernivvigar said.

"All me life, if need be!"

"Then you admit your crime?"

The man, up on his knees now, chewed his bottom lip, then looked from the old Samhaist back to Callen.

Prydae watched him with great interest, noting the emotions tearing at him. The man obviously loved that young woman, and he knew of course what his admission would do to her. He would be branded and indebted, but that paled beside Callen's fate.

A long minute passed.

"We will need two sacks this evening," Bernivvigar said loudly, and the crowd cheered.

"Yes, I did it!" the accused man suddenly blurted, and he started to cry. "We did. Oh, but she bewitched me with her charms." He fell forward, facedown on the ground. "Pity, me lord. Pity."

On a nod from Bernivvigar, a pair of guards moved over and roughly pulled the groveling man aside.

"Have you anything to say, woman?" the Samhaist asked.

Callen didn't look up.

She knew she was doomed, Prydae observed. She had gone past hope now, had settled into that resigned state of empty despair.

"Now comes the fun," Prydae heard one of the guards standing behind him remark.

They took the guilty man first, throwing him roughly to the ground. Two men sat on him to hold him still, while another pulled off his trousers. The cuckolded husband, meanwhile, went to the bonfire, where a flat-headed iron brand had been set in place, its end now glowing. By the time he lifted it in his gloved hand and turned, the guilty man was staked to the ground. He lay on his back, naked from the waist down and with his legs spread wide and held firmly in place by leather ties.

Gasps of excitement and even appreciation, accompanied by a few sympathetic groans, marked the husband's stride as he moved between those widespread legs. The guilty man began to whimper, and all the louder when the cuckolded husband waved the glowing iron before his wide, horror-filled eyes.

"P-please," he stammered. "Mercy! Mercy! I'll pay you four times, I will! Five times!"

The glowing brand went in hard against the side of his testicles.

Prydae had seen several battles in his eighteen years. He had watched men chopped down, squirming and screaming to their deaths. He had seen a woman get cut in half at the waist by a great axe, her top half falling so that she could see her own severed legs, standing there for a long moment before toppling over. But never in all the battles had the young nobleman heard a shriek as bloodcurdling and earsplitting as that from the man sprawled before him.

The man jerked so violently that he yanked one of the stakes from the ground. That hardly did him any good, for as he tried to kick his leg over in an attempt to cover up, he merely brought the tender flesh of his inner thigh against the side of the hot iron.

His face locked in a fierce grimace, the wronged husband pressed harder and slapped the flailing leg away. Finally he stepped back, and the wounded man, sobbing and wailing in agony, flipped his leg over again, trying to curl up.

The guards pulled him up from the ground, and when he tried to duck, one kicked him hard in the groin. He doubled over and fell back to the ground, and so they grabbed him by the ankles and unceremoniously dragged him away, through the jeering and laughing crowd, many of whom spat upon him.

When finally it settled again, Bernivvigar turned his hawkish gaze upon Callen once more. "Have you anything to say?"

The woman sniffled but did not look up.

A nod from him had the guards eagerly stripping off her clothing.

Despite the gruesome surroundings, Prydae couldn't help but take note of the pretty young thing's naked body. Her breasts were round and full and teasingly upturned, and her belly still had a bit of her girlish fat, just enough to give it an enticing curl. Yes, he should have taken her for a night's pleasure, Prydae realized, and he sighed, for now it was too late.

Again the aggrieved husband went over to the fire, where the handler was preparing the adder, exciting it and angering it by moving it near the hot embers. With a wicked grin, the dirty man handed over the catch stick, its noose now securely holding the two-foot-long copper-colored snake right behind its triangular head.

The husband glanced back when he heard Bernivvigar say, "This is your last chance to speak, woman. If you have any words of apology or remorse, this is the moment."

Callen started to lift her head, as if she wanted to say something. But then she slumped back, as if she hadn't the strength.

Prydae watched the husband, noting his wince as the guards drew the large canvas bag over his wife's head, pulled it down, then pushed her roughly to the ground and forcing her legs inside. Now she flailed wildly and struggled, until one of the guards kicked her hard in the back.

They drew the drawstring of the sack, and kicked her again for good measure, and she lay there, sobbing quietly.

The crowd began to murmur, urging the husband on; and, indeed, there was a hesitation to his every step toward her.

Prydae watched him intently, seeing him pause and imagining the tumult of feelings that must be swirling within him. That hesitation seem to break apart all of a sudden, as the cuckold painted a scowl on his face and moved to the sack with three quick strides. One of the guards pulled up the tied end, and the other pulled open the mouth of the bag.

"Don't ye miss," the guard holding the open end said, and he gave the cuckold an exaggerated wink.

The cheering grew louder; the husband looked around. Then he thrust the catch-stick forward, shoving the adder's head far into the bag. With quick hands, the guards helped him force the rest of the squirming snake in, and the husband released one of the drawstrings and pulled back the empty catch-stick.

The guard drew tight the string and tied it off, then jumped back, letting the sack fall over.

The crowd hushed; Prydae found himself leaning forward in his chair.

For a long while, nothing.

There came a slight movement as the snake began to stir. The woman screamed, and the sack began to thrash.

They heard her cry out, and a sudden and violent jerk of the sack brought every onlooker to hold his breath and seemed to freeze the scene in place. The sack held still for a moment, then came another jerk, the woman within no doubt reacting to a second bite.

And again and again.

It went on for many minutes, when finally the bag went still.

The snake handler cautiously moved over and slightly opened the tied end, then jumped well back.

Sometime later, the adder slithered out.

Prydae sat back in his chair, chilled to the bone.

"Stake her up at the end of the road," he heard Bernivvigar say, "that all the workmen might be reminded of her crime."

With that, the old Samhaist turned and walked away, and the crowd began to disperse.

"It'll take her two days to die, unless an animal gets her," Prydae heard his guard say behind him.

"Aye, and with the poison burning her, head to toe, all the while."

The prince sat very still watching the sack. One delicate bare foot had come out of the end and was twisting slowly in the dirt and twitching.

Prydae finally managed to turn his eyes and consider the monks. Father Jerak was staring at the departing Samhaist, his expression obviously uncomplimentary. The prince noted the young and stern one, Bathelais, had his arms crossed over his chest, eyes set determinedly. Bathelais seemed the most accepting of the group, standing in particular contrast to the monk beside him, a young man Prydae did not know, whose look of horror and distress was so pronounced that the prince had to wonder if the man's eyes would freeze open. Obviously, most of the monks had no liking for this severe Samhaist justice, but they hadn't the power to do anything about it. In times past, the adulteress would often have been spared the sack, with a confession and if she were properly broken of spirit before going in. But now, Prydae understood-as did his father, as did Bernivvigar and the monks of Abelle-this scene was about much more than the life of one pitiful little peasant girl.

It was about an old Samhaist's declaration of his continuing importance.

This was justice in Honce, in God's Year 54.