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| Raven's Blood by Marissa Campbell |
Chapter 1
Somerset,
England
November
869
Sigberht
gripped the hilt of his sword, and my heart quickened.
“Cut
off his hand, lord,” he said.
The
boy’s face went ashen, his hands kneading the front of his threadbare tunic.
Only eleven summers old, he should have been out chasing chickens or helping
his mother collect firewood for the coming winter.
Council
was held once a year, and petitioners had been coming and going all day long,
pleading their cases to my father, the Earl of Somerset. Sigberht, my father’s
Seneschal, was on hand to marshal out punishment. Almost everyone from the
village was present, spectators and claimants alike crammed into my father’s timber
hall. The reek of unwashed bodies was palpable.
Slaves
scurried about with clay pitchers filled with mead, and the drink flowed
graciously into waiting bone horns. The central hearth, a long narrow trough
dug into the packed dirt floor, burned bright, filling the space with smoke and
heat. A hole cut into the roof allowed some of the smoke to escape, the rest
hovered over the crowd filling the spaces between the large timber beams overhead.
There were no windows. Oil lamps hung suspended from the ceiling, and iron candle-trees,
scattered about the large open hall, sputtered in the constant drafts.
My
hands were sweaty from the heat in the room and a groundswell of indignation. I
rubbed them against the soft wool of my dress. For the most part, I had been
silent, beyond the occasional grumble of dissent, and duly recorded each case
and its judgment. This last quarrel broke my tolerance. I put down my quill and
rose, the hem of my blue kirtle brushing the freshly laid rushes under foot.
I
turned an appeal to my father. “That’s not justice.”
He
sat in the lord’s chair high upon the raised dais; his eyes hooded beneath
waves of honey-blond hair, his face unreadable.
“Council is no place for a woman,” Sigberht
said. Twenty and five, with eyes the colour of a calm sea and hair like silken
oats shimmering in the sun, he would have been a comely man, if it weren’t for
his arrogant scowl.
“Apparently,
neither is justice nor common sense,” I said.
“Peace,
you two.” My father sat forward in his chair.
“The boy is merely the puppet. If anyone
should be punished, it should be the tanner, not his son,” I said.
“Your
daughter needs a tighter leash, lord,” someone yelled from the back of the hall
and was rewarded with a round of laughter.
The
tanner stepped forward, his tunic smeared and reeking of dung: the perfume of
his trade. “I swear my innocence.”
“And
who supports your claim?” Sigberht’s grip on his sword never lessened.
“My
brother.” A small man stepped forward, equally filthy but without the added
foul aroma.
“Your
brother is a farmer?” My father asked.
“Yes,
my lord.”
I
frowned. While a freeman, the oath of a farmer would not carry much weight.
My
father’s master of arms approached the dais. Taller and thicker than most men, Wulfric
looked like a bear. His shaggy mane and beard were blacker than pitch, and his eyes
were hard and implacable. “As does my brother, Tanner, swear to seeing your
bastard lead your pigs into my keep.” He spat at the Tanner’s feet. “The dog
has been doing this all year, my lord. His pigs have grown fat off my land.”
Wulfric
and his brother, Leofric, were both warriors in my father’s household guard. In
a game of oaths, Wulfric had just won.
“The
law is clear. The boy’s a thief.” Sigberht withdrew his sword from its scabbard
and grabbed the child’s arm, hauling him toward the door.
The
boy whimpered; tears streamed down his face.
“Wait.” I took a step toward the dais. “I
offer an alternative.”
The
hard set of my father’s jaw warned of his waning patience.
“The
boy will be of age to hold a sword on his next birth day. Let Wulfric claim two
swine instead, one for each of the boy’s hands.”
“I’ve
only the five swine, lord. The boy will live with one hand,” the tanner pleaded.
“What
say you, Wulfric?” my father asked.
“That’s
fair compensation, lord.”
“Done.”
My father waved them both away, ignoring the tanner’s protests, and turned to me.
“The next word you speak, Avelynn, will see you bent over that bench, my belt
your justice for all present to see. Am I understood?”
I
nodded and sat back down, picking up my quill.
The
latest verdict was openly debated upon by everyone present.
Sigberht
addressed the crowd. “Demas of Wareham, nephew of the Late Bishop Ealhstan,
step forward and state your business.”
Bishop
Ealhstan had been an arrogant, dour little man, constantly voicing bleak
Christian rhetoric; I never did have much patience for him or his litanies. I
studied his nephew with curious interest.
Tall
and lean, not a strand of sleek black hair out of place, his complexion was darker
than any of the men in the village: he looked almost Saracen, exotic. His tunic
and trousers were a simple brown and unadorned, but he wore a deep purple cloak
attached at his shoulder by a magnificent gold broach. He made his way toward
the dais.
“Lord
Eanwulf,” he said, bowing to my father. “I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s
hand in marriage.”
My
quill floated to the floor.
