‘My Lord. These are men who fear for their lives and their families.’
‘That they might be made targets of Plant Mat?’
Dudley smiles at Legge’s affected, faintly Gallic, pronunciation of the words – Plaunt Met.
‘And also they fear… his eye,’ the sheriff says, his cheeks turned a little pink.
Legge peers, in an exaggerated fashion, towards the prisoner’s dock. Laughter from the jury’s box. The prisoner looks down.
‘So,’ Legge says. ‘What was the response to this offer of a bargain?’
The sheriff straightens his back.
‘The landowners were summoned from their beds and would hear none of it, my Lord. No one should make deals with notorious thieves. They had him tied to a cart and taken to New Radnor. Calling in at my farm, where I was roused and, realising the importance of this arrest, sent at once for constables.’
‘And while you were waiting for the castle dungeons to be unlocked and prepared, I gather there was intercourse between the prisoner and the landowners, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths?’
‘My Lord…’ Roger Vaughan comes hesitantly to his feet. ‘It’s, um… it’s pronounced Howell.’
‘What is?’
‘Hywel Griffiths, my Lord. Pronounced Howell. I just thought—’
‘Very useful, I’m sure, Master Vaughan,’ Legge says with venom. ‘Let us proceed.’
Vaughan sits down, eyes closing in embarrassment. Dudley smiles. Legge pretends to have lost the thread of his questioning and consults his papers, turning back a page.
‘How would you describe the nature of this intercourse between the prisoner and the owners of the cattle he’s accused of attempting to steal?’
‘Well… heated, my Lord. The prisoner, having failed to make a deal for his release, tried to escape and was restrained. It was then that he… uttered curses.’
‘Hmm.’ Legge pinching his sharp chin. ‘Consider, for a moment, your use of the word “curses”. In the heat of the moment, a man might shout abuse…?’
‘No, my Lord. This was delivered in what I can only describe as cold blood.’
‘You were witness to it.’
‘Indeed I was, my Lord. I saw and heard all of it, although – my Welsh having fallen away in recent years – I was not able to understand every word.’
‘You’re saying that the alleged curses were phrased in the language of the Welsh?’
‘They were. With finger pointed, under a full moon, which is said to give more power to—’
‘Yes, yes. I believe we shall shortly be hearing more expert testimony as to the, ah, etiquette of cursing. Was any of it delivered in the Queen’s English?’
‘Enough to convince me of the nature of it.’
‘Which was?’
‘That my neighbours, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths would be dead before the new moon.’
‘And indeed there seems little doubt that both men… were.’
‘No doubt at all, my Lord.’
‘In ways… unexpected?’
‘One of a sudden fever.’
‘Hardly uncommon in itself, Sheriff.’
‘The other drowning when a sudden, ferocious wind smashed an old and narrow footbridge over the River Irfon as he was crossing it.’
‘You were not there at the time, I take it.’
‘I was not. However, I was summoned within hours, after the dead body was recovered from the river. My home is but a few miles away, see, and I can testify that this particular day was one of an unusual stillness. Not a breath of wind in the Radnor Forest.’
The judge nods, extracting a paper from the pile before him.
‘I also have a statement here, signed by the son of Master Hie-well Griffiths’ – flinging a cold glance at poor Vaughan – ‘giving testimony that he was at that time burning twiggery from a tree-felling not two fields distant from the point in the river where his father met his death and felt no hint of a breeze. Saying the smoke from his fire rose steadily throughout the morning.’
Strong evidence, Dudley thinks. In the absence of a specific Witchcraft Act, cases of causing injury or death by force of magic are become difficult to prove. Given her own interest in magic and alchemy, Bess might dither for years over this issue. Meanwhile, the power of malevolence conjured through focused thought and satanic ritual will go unchecked.
Dudley, who more than once has felt himself to be the target of a distant hatred made toxic by dark arts, is himself convinced that Prys Gethin, or whoever else he claims to be, does indeed have a stare of practised malignancy through that one eye.
And Dudley also knows that, where the use of magic is concerned, a sense of self-belief takes the practitioner more than halfway along the shadowed road. He stares hard at Prys Gethin.
Look up, you bastard, look up.
‘These two deaths,’ Sir Christopher Legge says. ‘How far apart were they, in time?’
The prisoner makes no move. His head is bowed, as if for the rope, as the sheriff replies.
‘My Lord, the fever struck the night before the collapse of the bridge.’
A hiss rushes round the old barn as if a cold river has been directed through it.
‘I think,’ the judge says over it, ‘that it is incumbent upon this court to learn more about the practice of witchcraft along this border. After our midday meal, I shall call the Lord Bishop of Hereford to give evidence. In the meantime, Sheriff, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the significance for this county, of the name Prys Gethin.’
XXXVI
In Dark Arts
JOHN SCORY has removed his mitre and wears a small hat of an academic kind. He takes the oath with a knowing half-smile. Legge consults his papers, then sits back in his big chair and looks up.
‘My Lord Bishop, you are, I believe, my last witness.’
Scory looks perturbed.
‘Not the last ever, I trust, Sir Christopher. One would hate to think the fear of a Welsh curse might drive you from the Bench.’
Legge scowls. Dudley grins. He rather likes Scory, a bishop in perhaps his last see who gives not a whit for anyone, least of all an ambitious judge from London.
The light in here has gloomed since midday, the banners fading into shadow, the old barn’s beams and pillars giving the court the illumination of a forest clearing.
The judge starts again.
‘You’ve been Bishop of Hereford since…?’
‘Last year.’
Legge frowns. He evidently thought it was longer.
‘But in that time,’ Scory tells him, ‘I’ve studied in some detail the religious beliefs and practices on the fringes of the diocese.’
‘By which you mean the area in which we now sit?’
‘And some regions further west.’
‘You’re saying that beliefs in this area may differ in some ways from the accepted faith of the land?’
‘Only in the way that faith might be interpreted,’ Scory says. ‘Wales and the Border country are not noted as areas of religious rebellion, but old beliefs die hard.’
Legge waits. Now Dudley begins to see where the judge is going with this. He’ll have the court presented with clear proof that Wales is yet riddled with witchcraft and that it’s entirely reasonable to suppose that a man like Prys Gethin was schooled in dark arts.
It should make for an entertaining hour or so. Dudley has eaten passably well in the Bull, drained a flagon of the innkeeper’s finest cider and then emerged to find the whore, Amy, waiting for him in the marketplace. Telling him that if he comes to her after court’s out, she may well be able to point him towards the man he seeks.