will still have to undergo the trial.” As I began to shout, he held his hand up. “Geoffrey de Glanvill and his brother are pressing for a death sentence for the entire troupe. We cannot be seen to associate our enterprise with felons. You must prove your innocence.”
I looked to the Moor, but he wore his most inscrutable expression. “It’s true, John. You must go back and face a trial. Declare yourself the headman of the group and say that you stand for all of them, guilty or innocent.”
Savaric’s face glowed in the mutable light of the candles. “Trial by ordeal. You’ll cite your right to claim it under the 1166 Assize of Clarendon, which states that anyone on the oath of the jury accusedor notoriously suspected of robbery, theft or receiving may be put to the ordeal. Then you’ll undertake their test and walk away a free man, as will the rest of your troupe. An innocent man, whose fame precedes him. The best possible example to both believers and unbelievers. We have it all worked out, don’t we?”
The Moor turned his shining half-moon eyes upon me. “Trust me,
habibi
. I have a plan.”
5
JANUARY 1188
O n the day after Twelfth Night I found myself on trial at the Bath Assizes.
The witnesses shuffled past, a good-sized crowd, so keen to see me hang that many had travelled all the way from Glastonbury: burghers and millers, butchers and pardoners; a merchant in Flemish red and his wife, with a pearl necklace making deep, round indentations in her fat white neck; the blind man, with another guiding him—the wound on his forehead had almost healed, though the bruise still showed yellow.
The business of the court was tedious and the judge’s clerk had a droning voice that stopped me from paying attention to his words. At last it was my turn to speak.
“I am an innocent man!” I lied. “And I claim my right to trial by …” trying to recall the exact words, “ordeal. I cite my right to trial by ordeal under the 1166 Assize of Clarendon.”
At once there was furious muttering. Geoffrey de Glanvill thumped the table, and the ring that broke my nose winked in the light. “Outrageous!” he roared. “How dare you try to escape your just punishment by such lawyer’s tricks! You are a thief, a liar and aheathen, and I shall see you swing!”
The assize judge, having conferred with his clerk and the sheriff, leaned across to whisper into de Glanvill’s ear and there followed a furious exchange of whispers. Then de Glanvill sat back.
“John Savage,” the judge announced, “you are entitled to trial by ordeal in answer to the charges laid against you.” He looked at de Glanville. “The baron has requested that the test be the ordeal of oil.”
Oil? My stomach turned over. Boiling oil burns down to the bone. I had heard of murderers made to stand on burning coals until their feet were blackened ruins. The Moor had once told of an ordeal practised by the desert peoples: “A ladle is heated in the fire and then laid upon the tongue of the accused. If the man is lying, the tongue will shrivel and he will not lie again. The Bedu call this rite ‘the true light of God.’ ”
“Christ on an ass!” I had blasphemed. “That’s barbaric.”
The judge was speaking again. “… However, the assize decrees that the ordeal for the crimes of which you are accused should be the ordeal by water.”
Water was surely better than oil, wasn’t it? What was the Moor’s plan? Terror flooded in again. My knees buckled and I had to be caught by the guard. I hardly registered the moment when the officials returned with the pitcher of boiling water, but suddenly there was a lot of steam in the air, and I thought,
It’s January and very cold—maybe with every moment that passes the water will cool and be less likely to do me damage
. Then another man pushed through the crowd and set a brazier full of glowing red coals beneath the pitcher.
The mechanics of the trial were explained to the audience.
I looked to the Moor, but he wore his most inscrutable expression. “It’s true, John. You must go back and face a trial. Declare yourself the headman of the group and say that you stand for all of them, guilty or innocent.”
Savaric’s face glowed in the mutable light of the candles. “Trial by ordeal. You’ll cite your right to claim it under the 1166 Assize of Clarendon, which states that anyone on the oath of the jury accusedor notoriously suspected of robbery, theft or receiving may be put to the ordeal. Then you’ll undertake their test and walk away a free man, as will the rest of your troupe. An innocent man, whose fame precedes him. The best possible example to both believers and unbelievers. We have it all worked out, don’t we?”
The Moor turned his shining half-moon eyes upon me. “Trust me,
habibi
. I have a plan.”
5
JANUARY 1188
O n the day after Twelfth Night I found myself on trial at the Bath Assizes.
The witnesses shuffled past, a good-sized crowd, so keen to see me hang that many had travelled all the way from Glastonbury: burghers and millers, butchers and pardoners; a merchant in Flemish red and his wife, with a pearl necklace making deep, round indentations in her fat white neck; the blind man, with another guiding him—the wound on his forehead had almost healed, though the bruise still showed yellow.
The business of the court was tedious and the judge’s clerk had a droning voice that stopped me from paying attention to his words. At last it was my turn to speak.
“I am an innocent man!” I lied. “And I claim my right to trial by …” trying to recall the exact words, “ordeal. I cite my right to trial by ordeal under the 1166 Assize of Clarendon.”
At once there was furious muttering. Geoffrey de Glanvill thumped the table, and the ring that broke my nose winked in the light. “Outrageous!” he roared. “How dare you try to escape your just punishment by such lawyer’s tricks! You are a thief, a liar and aheathen, and I shall see you swing!”
The assize judge, having conferred with his clerk and the sheriff, leaned across to whisper into de Glanvill’s ear and there followed a furious exchange of whispers. Then de Glanvill sat back.
“John Savage,” the judge announced, “you are entitled to trial by ordeal in answer to the charges laid against you.” He looked at de Glanville. “The baron has requested that the test be the ordeal of oil.”
Oil? My stomach turned over. Boiling oil burns down to the bone. I had heard of murderers made to stand on burning coals until their feet were blackened ruins. The Moor had once told of an ordeal practised by the desert peoples: “A ladle is heated in the fire and then laid upon the tongue of the accused. If the man is lying, the tongue will shrivel and he will not lie again. The Bedu call this rite ‘the true light of God.’ ”
“Christ on an ass!” I had blasphemed. “That’s barbaric.”
The judge was speaking again. “… However, the assize decrees that the ordeal for the crimes of which you are accused should be the ordeal by water.”
Water was surely better than oil, wasn’t it? What was the Moor’s plan? Terror flooded in again. My knees buckled and I had to be caught by the guard. I hardly registered the moment when the officials returned with the pitcher of boiling water, but suddenly there was a lot of steam in the air, and I thought,
It’s January and very cold—maybe with every moment that passes the water will cool and be less likely to do me damage
. Then another man pushed through the crowd and set a brazier full of glowing red coals beneath the pitcher.
The mechanics of the trial were explained to the audience.
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