Read Online The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats - Free Book Online Page B

to block Ned and loudly asks how the borough enforces trading restrictions. Ned speaks of chalk and levelookers and county court in a voice smooth and mellow like a summer evening. Even so, listening to them is tedious. Would that they would stop talking about tolls and start talking about something important. Like whether I can have another drink from Ned’s wineskin, and when this barbarous death-march will be over.
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    My father is now a burgess of Caernarvon. Friend of the king. The mayor leads the other burgesses through our house in a long, meandering line while bearing a rather heinous-looking mace over his shoulder.
    Ned is among them, all leather boots and a finespun woolen mantle. He winks at me and I get a bellyful of shiveries.
    My father shows the burgesses his sword and falchion. He shows them the sacks of barley and millet, the salted meat, the bins of peas and turnips.
    The mayor approves. My father’s stores are sufficient and his weapons sharp. The burgesses give a rousing cheer and my father grins as if he just made peerage or sainthood. They clap him on the back and paw his shoulders and crowd around until I cannot tell him from any of the others.

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    T HE brat sets me to cleaning her blue gown. Mud clings like stolen goods to a thief’s hand.
    Off they went, the pair of them. The master and the brat. Back they came clad all about in town privilege.
    Knew it would happen. It’s why they came here. It’s why any of them come here.
    But watching them ride upstreet made what happened at Pencoed yesterday and nevermore all in one gasp. Horseback English, a decree from their king, and my first taste of foreign rule went down bitter and clear.
    One more burgess. One more friend of the king. One more stone in those purple-banded walls.
    The mud has worked into the very weave of the wool. It’ll take lye and scrubbing to bring it clean.

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    A S A BURGESS of Caernarvon, my father has been endowed by the king with some cropland. It’s without the walls and comes with Welsh people to till it. It’s been sown since March with oats, so all that’s left to do is weed and chase away crows. That job is done by a sullen little boy whose only words in English are
bastard, whoreson,
and
rot in Hell.
    I go with my father to look at the land. He stands hands on hips and gazes over the greening yardlands as if they’re Eden. “Of all the privileges that come with this place, sweeting, land without tenure is the cream.”
    â€œI like Edgeley better,” I say.
    â€œI owed service for Edgeley,” my father replies. “I had to be ready to go armed where my lord bade me at any time, for any reason. This land I hold of the king for twelvepence a year. That’s all. It’s that simple.”
    I still like Edgeley better, but my father is grinning so big as he walks among the rows of plants and ruffles their leaves as he might Salvo’s ears that I say naught.
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    Mistress Tipley is hollering at me to help with the brewing. My shutters are closed so I can pretend not to hear. I tiptoe down the stairs, past the hall—where my father would notice me and bid me go help the old crone—and out into the glorious sunshine.
    Down the street I stride, dodging puddles and horse apples. It’s a fine day for justice, and I cannot wait to taste it.
    Now that my father has the privileges, I will have what is due me.
    There’s the shop, just as I remember it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for se’ennights. I’ll march up, rap at the counter, and demand what’s mine. The merchant will be vengeful but pale, but all that’s good and right is on my side and he’ll reluctantly pull my altar cloth from behind the counter and pause just a moment with sublime regret ere putting it in my deserving hands.
    I will tell him how fortunate he is that I am such a good Christian that I will not haul him before Court Baron for