*
The court proceedingswere long and boring. Otto sat on his carved wooden chair atop the dais, listening to the proclamations of the accusers and the lengthy arguments of the defendants. Their concerns seemed trivial to him; but he knew that for his people, a single horse could mean feeding their family versus watching them go hungry.
The great hall was emptier than usual, with just a single row of trestle tables positioned opposite the dais. A member of the castle guard stood at the door and two others escorted in the petitioners and defendants, ensuring no one left until justice had been served. Otto did his best to focus on proceedings, not allowing his mind to wander back to days past, when Ariana had worn a beautiful gown of ruby red and danced on the polished floor directly below him.
At last, they reached the final case of the day. Otto was in no mood to hear from a cheating wife and despite his determination to be fair-minded, had already decided in favor of her husband long before the couple were brought before him. But the modesty of the short-haired, slender woman, who stood by the table with her head bowed and her hands meekly folded, brought him up short.
This was not the bold hussy he’d been anticipating.
His gaze flickered to the husband; a great brawny brute of a man with a florid complexion and vivid blue tattoos snakingdown his muscular forearms. He sat with his legs apart and his arms crossed over a stained tunic, the unmistakable scent of ale wafting from his unwashed body.
Otto cleared his throat. “Who brings this case?”
The man turned beady black eyes in his direction. “I do.”
Otto drummed his fingers against the arms of his ornate chair. “On your feet when you address me,” he said, with misleading calmness. Immediately the complainant scraped back his chair and pushed himself upright, breathing hard with the exertion of this simple movement. Otto saw his wife take a subtle step to the side, putting a greater distance between them. “What is your name?” he demanded.
“Jeremiah. This is my wife.” He flung his arm out to the side, without looking in her direction. “And she’s been on her back with Benjamin the blacksmith.”
One of the guards broke the silence with a poorly muffled bark of laughter. Otto glanced upwards, noting who it was and determining he would be rightly disciplined as soon as the court was out of session.
The wife seemed to cower further into herself at the allegation. Her head was still bowed, which displeased Otto who was intent upon seeing her face.
“May I ask your name?” he addressed her.
Jeremiah stiffened. It seemed he had not anticipated the Earl of Darkmoor seeking his wife’s view on anything; it was not customary for a woman to speak up on such occasions.
The woman raised bewildered brown eyes to Otto’s. “My name is Sarah,” she said, so quietly that Otto had to lean forward to hear her.
“Sarah,” he repeated. “And what say you to this charge?”
Jeremiah’s face was slowly turning the color of an over-ripe plum. Otto ignored him.
Sarah’s gaze shifted to her husband and then back to Otto. Her whole body was trembling. “I deny it, milord,” she eventually whispered.
Jeremiah banged his first on the table. “You laid down on your back and he ploughed you, not once but many times.” His angry voice carried through the near-empty hall.
Otto fixed him with a glare. “Sit down,” he ordered. “No one speaks in this court without my permission.” He returned his attention to the wife. “Is that true?”
Her eyes widened as her cheeks drained of color. “I would never do such a thing. Never.”
“What cause have you given your husband to think it?”
Her voice shook. “I took Benjamin a cup of ale when he came to fix our horse’s harness.” She looked down. “We got to talking, that’s all. I was never in his house. Not once. Nor he in ours.” For the first time, her words were firm.
Otto looked back at the puce-colored husband. “What say you to that?”
Jeremiah pointed an angry finger at his wife. “She’s a nag and a scold with me, always complaining about how much time I spend at the alehouse.” For the first time, he noticed the large stain on the front of his tunic and his hand brushed at it ineffectually. “But with him, she’s all smiles.”
Otto had heard enough. “A wife should never be a nag or a scold,” he observed. “But a husband should provide for his family, not spend all his time at the ale house. Treat your wife with more kindness, Jeremiah. And Sarah, save your smiles for your husband.”
He waved a hand to confirm the case was dismissed and rubbed his temples, doing his best to ignore the dull itch of his scar. The guards ushered away the couple and closed the double doors behind them. Otto was alone, at last.
His gaze travelled around the great hall, seeing not a bare and empty room but one full of ghosts. His father’s figure lingered here, striding through the doors and demanding attention. So too did Ariana, as she’d been for the Beltane Ball; smiling brightly, glittering with jewels. If Otto closed his eyes, he could still hear the minstrels’ band and the heavy stamp of booted feet on the dance floor. Such thoughts led him somewhere darker. To the melancholy banging of a single drum and the unstoppable wailing of a grief-stricken mother. Young Benedict’s funeral procession had started from here just days earlier.
He was so deep inside his memories, he hardly heard the double doors squeaking open and the patter of footsteps towards him. He jolted to his senses when a deep voice spoke up.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord.”
