Rough Justice - Part 1 (of 6)

Prelude

The humidity was stifling. What little natural light there was filtered through the small dirty window set high up in the wall, casting a narrow shaft of sunlight through the gloom onto a rough hewn table. The stone floor was covered in a token smattering of straw which did little to disguise its grimy condition. Condensation made the walls slimy with mildew and wet to the touch. It was a decidedly unpleasant place to be, but then, there was nothing pleasant in store for its tired and bedraggled occupants.

Young Dreams

Sarah was a dreamer. Bored by her droll and predictable existence as a merchants daughter in a small town, whose only real diversions were the comings and goings of the riverboats, she dreamed of the high life in town. Not that she had ambitions above her station, but she was sure that she was destined for better things. An unhappy home did not make matters any better. Her mother succumbed to tuberculosis when Sarah was thirteen. It is never easy to lose a mother, but particularly difficult on the cusp of womanhood, and although her father tried, he had neither the time nor the emotional ability to understand her needs.

She loved her father dearly, but his business was not what it once was, and as his standing in the community began to erode, he grew more and more temperamental. He did not drink often, but when he did, he became violent and sometimes lashed out. She was subject to the business end of his temper - sometimes ignited by the most trivial of things - more and more as the situation deteriorated.

She did her best to keep a house, but as she approached her sixteenth birthday, she sensed that he was seeing her more and more as a burden. She knew he would struggle to marry her into a good situation, and that he was showing signs of worrying willingness to give her away to suitors of more humble means, should they ask. She knew she had to leave, but as she made her plans for her eventual escape to the nearby town of Braley-upon-Avon, circumstances intervened which served to hasten her departure.

On a warm spring evening, with the sun low on the horizon, she set out for a new future, with nothing but the clothes on her back and some provisions and personal items stuffed into a carpetbag. The excitement and adrenalin soon wore off as she trudged down the road toward Braley, the carpetbag heavier and heavier in her hand, so when a passing tradesman stopped and offered her a lift, she accepted gratefully. The bag safely stowed at her feet, she climbed aboard the cart as it trundled into the dusk.

The driver was pleased to have the company, and they soon struck up a conversation. He was a kindly man, and married, judging by the simple band on his left hand. As luck would have it, he was a Tavernier who ran an establishment called the Haywain right on the town square in Braley, and having established that she was of limited prospects, and being of need himself, offered her room and board, with a little silver as well, if she would fill the vacancy for a serving maid at his hostelry. With little choice, and with no wish to spurn the opportunity that fate had presented her with, Sarah happily accepted.

Trouble at the Haywain

The years passed quickly. What had started out as a temporary position to tide her over until she had settled, turned out to be nothing of the sort. There were not many places a serving maid could climb given the nature of her work. She was not skilled, had no artistic inclinations, and given that she had lost her mother at a tender and formative age, lacked the social guile and graces to extricate herself from her lowly position.

In fact, although the hours were long and the patrons occasionally a little too tactile for her liking, she enjoyed her situation and secretly took pleasure from the numerous compliments men gave her about her looks – even if some of them were a bit crass about it. She enjoyed the banter with the regulars, and was intrigued by the many who were simply passing through, often wondering where they came from and where they were going to.

Her employers had treated her well, which unfortunately could not be said some of their patrons of dubious ilk, who sometimes mistook her for a lady of negotiable affection. As she was clearly eligible, and of an age where many of her contemporaries, of whatever station in life, were married and settled, offers for her hand were common, although without exception gently rebuffed. She had heard the rumours that she held herself too proud, but she knew what she wanted from a man, and no one so far had matched her lofty and exacting expectations.

Her dreams of marriage, of a house to run and a family to raise were not unattainable, but she knew in her heart that she would not reach her modest goals if she continued in her current situation. She needed a change of circumstance – and soon. She could have no inkling that things would indeed change. But not for the better.

It was a warm and humid Friday night and the tavern was a riot of bustle and noise, packed to the rafters with the flotsam and jetsam of society. The twice-yearly Assizes were in town. As a provincial market town, Braley-upon-Avon had no permanent high court. There was a magistrates court off the town square, but this was reserved for minor disputes and small claims.

Instead, it would hold Assizes to hear serious criminal cases over the course of a week once every six months or so, when travelling justices, assisted by local magistrates, would dispense their one-eyed version of justice. To the inhabitants of the otherwise run-of-the-mill conurbation, the week-long Assizes were the highlight of the social calendar, and the citizens of Braley were hard at work making the most of it. Every day the gallery in the small magistrates court would be packed – with admission by ticket only – although exception was made for any immediate family of the accused.

Large crowds gathered outside the court house, kept apprised of proceedings by the small lads who acted as runners, dashing in and out as key testimonies were given or verdicts handed down. It had been a largely uneventful session, with few serious offences to keep the crowds really interested, but the judges, with a keen sense of theatrical timing, often saved the best for last and rumours were rife that the next day would be reserved for female prisoners, of which there were currently two – both of which were potentially capital cases.

In a sense the Assizes so far had been a massive disappointment, as given the prevailing mood of the era, public executions were common for even the pettiest of offences, and rather exceptionally, the judges had not been obliging so far. The restlessness was translated into other diversions, namely drink and horseplay, as the town’s authorities struggled to cope with the rambunctious behaviour, a task made doubly difficult by the number of visitors attracted by the Assizes.

Sarah was exhausted. She felt like she was trying to placate a mob with an unquenchable thirst for ale and mead, as flagon after empty flagon was thrust into her direction, flailing arms eagerly clamouring for a refill. She didn’t like it when they were so busy, it produced an almost herd mentality so that an act of indiscretion by one idiot was often mimicked by another, in an escalating game of one-upmanship. She had already been drenched more than once and had long since given up trying to stay dry. It was all she could do to ward off the unwanted advances of some of the bolder ones, but even she didn’t have enough hands to slap away all the hands and fingers that pinched or slapped her arse as she squeezed by the packed tables.

Rachel Miller, the other serving maid, for whom she had little time or respect, and who she suspected of being more than a little work shy, was nowhere to be seen. If she was true to form, she’d be hiding in the kitchen no doubt, making Sarah’s life more difficult than it needed to be. Rachel was plain to look at, and that was a rather generous and objective assessment, so it would probably have made little difference had she been bothered to help. The men folk invariably looked to Sarah for service, and she instinctively knew that her looks and the favour of their customers were a source of envy for Rachel. Sarah suspected that she was also the source of rumours about her supposed airs and graces – but she did not really care – in a way, she was quietly pleased that she irritated Rachel just by being in the same room. The base and odious little creature had it coming to her. Momentarily lost in her little daydream, Sarah went about her business almost subconsciously, and as she leaned over a table to collect some empty flagons, she started when someone suddenly cupped her breast through her low cut dress and squeezed. Hard. So hard that it made her gasp.

She involuntarily let go of the flagons she was holding and they clattered onto the hard stone floor in a cacophony of noise. Embarrassed and furious in equal measure, she swiftly knelt down to collect them and this time suffered the indignity of having her bottom slapped, eliciting throaty guffaws and trills of high-pitched laughter from witnesses in the immediate vicinity.

She’d had enough. She stormed off to the bar, ignoring the baying hordes and forcefully slamming the empty flagons down on the surface hard enough to dent the already pitted and chipped wood. Shaking her wrist, which she had hurt in her impetuous show of temper, she pushed open the door to the kitchen, hell bent on finding Rachel and pressing her into useful service.

Rachel was leaning over the sink, and turned around as the noise from the tavern floor rolled into the kitchen through the open door. Sarah, oblivious to her protestations, grabbed her by the upper arm, and half dragged her, half pushed her toward the open door, and with a shove hard enough to make her stumble shouted angrily “Now get out there and stay out there you worthless whelp.” Wiping her hands against her dress in satisfaction, Sarah headed back into the fray.

She continued to work the room, with one eye on the reluctant layabout she had unwillingly forced back to work. The Tavernier, whose wife had chosen this, of all weeks to injure her back and confine herself to bed, was himself occupied retrieving barrels of mead from the cellar. Rachel was moving around at a snails pace, with a most disagreeable expression on her face. She looked up to see where Sarah was and found herself at the end of a frosty and disdainful glare. Quickly lowering her eyes, she picked up the pace a little, unwilling to risk another confrontation given the mood Sarah was in.

When it happened, it happened quickly. She could tell by the lustful look in his eye that he would be trouble, but Rachel was nowhere near and as a person of some standing, it would not be prudent to keep him waiting. She smiled at him, civilly as he waved at his companions and they proffered their flagons in anticipation. She realised she would struggle to reach across him to the other side of the table, but he showed no signs of moving.

As she leaned over him, he turned his face toward her bosom, smiling and reaching out for a touch. Fed up and still steaming from the previous indignities she had been subjected to, she was having none of it. She stood bolt upright, and rather coldly and firmly addressed him “Sir, I would be delighted to serve your companions, but it would make my task somewhat easier if you were to rise so that I may retrieve their flagons.”

Bemused, he stood up, bowed unsteadily and slurred “Begging your pardon love, I did not mean to be a such nuisance.” Mollified, she reached across the table. As she did so, she felt a rough hand grab her neck and shoulder from behind, pushing her down hard, face first, onto the table, while, at the same time, her long skirt and shift were lifted up by someone behind her.

Reacting instinctively, she kicked upwards with the heel of her leather boot, connecting with her assailant’s genitals. Spinning around, she found him nearly doubled over in pain, clutching his crotch. He slowly raised his head, his eyes tearful, but burning with rage, and with deceptive speed made a grab for her throat. She sidestepped his lunge just in time and gave him a violent shove as he stumbled by.

Being thoroughly drunk, the hard push made him lose his balance. Struggling to stay upright, he tripped over his own feet and fell backwards, arms flailing, and as he hit the floor, his head connected solidly with the corner of the empty fireplace. There was a sickening crunch, audible even above the din, as he cracked his skull, the injury proving immediately fatal. Sarah looked on in horror, as the dead man’s lifeless eyes stared accusingly back at her. She stood, motionless, staring at him uncomprehendingly, acutely aware of the silence that had engulfed the tavern as its occupants, even in their drunken haze, sensed something was terribly wrong. One of the man’s companions pointed at her accusingly, whispering “He’s dead… you’ve killed him… he’s stone dead! Murderer! SHE killed him!” Sarah was frightened, scores of eyes were staring at her inquisitively and she had no idea what to do. She felt a hand on her forearm, and was about to pull it away when she realised it was John Scott, the Shire Reeve. She had noticed him in the tavern earlier in the evening, having a chat with the landlord to discuss how best to keep the peace. His presence now was a relief, as matters were on the verge of turning ugly.

Sensing something wrong, the Tavernier had come up from the cellar, cursing as he saw the dead man, head split open, lying on his tavern floor. Scott enlisted four of his assistants to take away the body, while two more were posted at the door to ensure no witnesses left without questioning. Sarah was escorted to the kitchen, where she waited with her employer while Scott made his enquiries.

The Tavernier looked at her in stony silence. Unable to bear it, Sarah started to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She was shaking and on the verge of tears. Looking up, she said, quietly, “Sir, I am sorry, really I am. It was too much. His hands were all over me and I dare say if I hadn’t defended myself I would have been raped. There was no-one there to stop it. You were below stairs getting the mead, I didn’t know what else to do. I pushed him – I know I did, but he meant to throttle me in his drunken rage. The others were laughing, enjoying the sport, I have no doubt that had I not hit him I’d be as dead as he is. I am truly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused – I am beside myself, but do you hear?” She motioned to the closed kitchen door as the hub-bub in the tavern slowly built up to its previous levels “No harm was done to you. It’s forgotten already.” She was not to know that he had fought hard to keep his anger in check so far, but the words she had meant to soothe him with instead pushed him over the edge.

“NO HARM?! Are you STUPID woman? Do you not realise what you have done? You have recklessly taken a man’s LIFE. He’s dead, and there’s no getting away from that. No amount of ale is going to drown the memories of those who witnessed it! Did you not know who he was? Have you any idea how much trouble you are in? You ungrateful wretch, is THIS how you repay me for years of kindness?” He would have continued his rant had the Shire Reeve not fortuitously entered the room.

Scott was a formidable man. Pushing six feet in height and a muscular fifteen stones, his lantern jaw, full beard and deep, thoughtful brown eyes commanded instant respect. When he spoke, it was usually after careful consideration. He was not wasteful with his words and had no delusions of self-importance. He knew his place in Braley and was comfortable with the expectations placed on him and his office. Having heard the majority of the argument between the maid and the landlord, Scott carefully appraised them both before addressing them.

“Sarah is it?” he said. She nodded. “This incident should be dismissed as nothing but an unfortunate accident, but the dead man is none other than the only son of Matthew Smyth, the local magistrate, and that has made things dreadfully complicated.”

“I was sure we had detained anyone who could have been helpful, but I am afraid that what we have heard does not favour you. I spoke with the three gentlemen that Mr Smyth was with when you served them, and their testimony is not kind.” Sarah’s temper flared “Gentlemen? You call those bastards GENTLEMEN?!”

Scott let her seethe for a minute before he continued. “The one independent witness, and the only one prepared to give us an account is Rachel Miller, who swears blind that she saw nothing untoward before you pushed Mr Smyth against the fireplace. The others are either too drunk or unwillingly to get involved.” Sarah was aghast. “That snivelling little Jezebel. You can’t believe HER, she’s hated me since the day I arrived here.”

“Calm down miss. I have my doubts as well” Scott said in a calm and soothing voice, trying his best to placate the agitated maid. “I am not sure how much weight to place on this rather flimsy evidence, as she was clearly on the other side of the tavern, and I also understand that you had briefly quarrelled. She showed me some bruises on her arm as evidence of your violent temperament, but I suspect her accusations are nothing but an opportunistic attempt at a petty revenge. However, as there is no one to speak on your behalf, or to verify your account, I am afraid I must take you into custody. Unless someone comes forward between now and the morning, you’ll be sent before the Assizes to answer for your actions.”

Scott turned to the Tavernier. “Sir, if you have any concern for this woman, it would be in your, and indeed her, best interests to find someone to speak for her. You have regulars, drunk or not someone must have seen something. The dead man is of no little consequence or position. Without witnesses, I fear for her.”

The pitying look in his eye as he took her arm and led her outside sent a cold shiver down her spine. The short, silent journey to the cells underneath the magistrates court passed as a blur, and she only broke out of her daze as she heard the lock click behind her as Scott turned the key on her cell door. He looked at her, a weary sadness etched on his face, and mumbled “I’m sorry, it is out of my hands now.”

The terrible import of his words began to sink in. There were too many vested interests for the matter to be dealt with as it should. The dead man was of mean character, he had wrongly assaulted her and she had defended herself. That should have been that. But the world she inhabited was all about who you were and who you knew. She. Sarah Thorn, was a nobody. He was somebody important. In her heart, she knew that was enough to convict her.

... to be continued.

(c) 2006 - Son of Ketch - Do not reproduce without permission (sonofketch@yahoo.co.uk)