The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats Page B

stand beneath a yew tree for a gasp of shade.
    They start calling plaints.
    Oath-breaking, amerced a penny. A dog tore up someone’s curtilage garden, amerced twopence. The master, not the dog. Someone’s pig wandering the streets. I can feel my hair growing.
    A beardy burgess all in graceful saffron is called up for breaking a contract, but he isn’t two moments before the trestle ere the bailiff intones, “Trespass forgiven, no amercement.”
    â€œBy God, there will be!” A Welshman leaps from the crowd and lashes a finger at the beardy burgess. “This man sold me sheep with the murrain and passed them off as healthy! I demand justice!”
    My father’s hand tightens on my elbow.
    I stand on tiptoe and crane my neck. Mayhap there will be a scandalous brawl right here in God’s yard.
    No luck. Serjeants fall on the Welshman, seize his arms, and force him still.
    The bailiff points at him. “Amerced twopence for slander.”
    The Welshman is turning an interesting shade of red. “You’ll regret it, by your beards. You’ll regret your every last act sooner than you realize.”
    â€œSerjeants, put him out.” The bailiff flicks his fingers. “Without the walls. Where he belongs.”
    The serjeants drag the Welshman out in a flurry of elbows and scraping of heels that seems awfully harsh for a man merely seeking justice.
    And my turn is coming.
    When I’m finally called, my father pushes me forward with a firm hand between my shoulder blades. I have to walk through the big mob of scofflaws like I’m one of them.
    I stand before the bailiff and the sourpuss. I clasp my hands and push my lip out the smallest bit like I’m innocent as a babe. Poor Cecily, motherless little lamb, victim of a woeful misunderstanding.
    My father is yammering about the respect he has for borough government and how he would rather die than break one of its laws out of malice and his firm commitment to attaining the privileges to defend laws such as this one and his close friendship with
honesti
like Sir John de Coucy.
    Poor little Cecily. Let her keep her halfpenny. She has learned her lesson.
    The bailiff sits up straighter. “What did you say men called you?”
    â€œEdgeley, my lord. Robert d’Edgeley.”
    Even the sourpuss is alert now, and he and the bailiff tilt their heads together and mutter.
    â€œOf Shire Hall Street? Down from Justice Court? White timbered house?”
    â€œYes, my lord.” My father seems confused. But that’s nothing new.
    The bailiff mutters something to the clerk, then announces, “The borough forgives Cecily d’Edgeley her amercement. In light of your taking the privileges, Edgeley, and staying in that house. Is that clear?”
    My father nods, but he still seems bewildered. “Thank you, my lord.”
    The bailiff smiles at me. “Go on, now, lass.”
    I twitch my hem and take my father’s elbow merrily. Poor motherless Cecily has hoodwinked the fools at borough court!
    There’s a distinct murmur in tongue-pull as the clerk scritches something on the
rotuli,
but the serjeants clear their throats and fidget with their knife-hilts and the churchyard falls quiet so the borough can finish handing out justice.

 
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    V ELLET is heavy. It’s like wearing a hundred soaking cloaks.
    But my mother put this gown on once. She rustled it over her head and tightened the lacing.
    This gown seemed as vast as Heaven once. But when I slide it on, it extends a mere fingerlength beyond my wrists and pools just slightly on the floor. Some places are bulgy. Others hang in folds. But mostly it fits.
    Then I try to walk, and I catch my toe in the hem and fall into the wall.
    I wager a whole shilling my mother never fell into any walls.
    My father is waiting in the hall. When I appear in the doorway, he gapes at me like a landed eel. “Glory, when did you grow such? Were you not