“Enough!” Gray roared, his command ringing through the village and bringing everyone to silence. He cast his gaze around before coming to rest again on the captured knights. A shiver tingled up Catherine’s spine.
“This will be settled peaceably. As Lord of Ravenslock, I hereby convene ahallmote. A jury will decide the guilt or innocence of each accused man. Clyde Potter and Stephan Baker will serve as manorial officers to choose the remaining ten witnesses of the court. Once we hear both sides of each case and the jury passes verdict, I will dispense justice.”
A low murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd, though Catherine saw the blond knight scowl and spit off to the side. But the other young men seemed to relax a little, the panicky look easing from their faces.
Soon the remaining ten witnesses were chosen from among the freeholders and knights, and the accused men, whether they were lads from Ravenslock or the strangers, were brought forward one by one. Each had witnesses stand to represent him and argue his case; for each a verdict was delivered and, if necessary, a fine imposed. In some cases, the young knight in question agreed to make restitution with work, rather than with money, to those whose property had been destroyed, while in others, the jury determined innocence of the charges.
Catherine watched Gray where he stood at the makeshift table that had been set up for the jury. She saw him working with his people—freemen, low-born, or noble—lending his view, or nodding and observing with serious concentration, but always serving as a powerful, stable presence in the center of the gathering. She marveled at his skill, his composure. It was amazing, really, his ability to arrive at this scene of chaos and wrest a civilized proceeding from the midst of it.
Pride burned in her breast. And love. Aye, she could deny it no longer. She loved Gray in a way she’d never thought it would be possible for her to love a man. He’d won her heart with his goodness and passion, with his sense of right and wrong, and his determination to see justice done.
She brushed her finger over her swollen lips, remembering the feel of his mouth taking hers as he stroked deep inside of her this afternoon. Her cheeks burned as she stared at him now, here in the square, gazing at his striking face, his powerful body…those graceful hands that were strong enough to kill with one pass of his sword, or gentle enough to caress her into mindless ecstasy.
She ducked her head as the memory of their lovemaking washed over her again, filling her with renewed heat. Darting her gaze to the people surrounding her, she prayed her expression hadn’t given away her thoughts.
A jolt went through her. Someone was watching her. He crouched, motionless and furtive, about ten paces away through the crowd. ’Twas the deformed man, the one she’d first seen peering at her from the shadows of the corridor the night of the king’s feast weeks ago. He wore the same, swathed garments that obscured his face from full sight, but she knew by the chill up her spine that he stared nonetheless.
Just like that first night, his gaze sliced into her, hard and penetrating. Then, suddenly, he looked away and ducked into the shifting masses of the crowd. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence—or her discomfort. All eyes were trained on the proceedings.
Catherine craned her neck to try to see where he’d gone, but he’d disappeared as if he’d been no more than a figment of her overwrought imagination. She suppressed a shiver, cursing that there was nothing she could do about him, or anyone else she might suspect as one of Eduard’s spies, other than to be more careful than usual about what she said or did.
She glanced back to the jury table. The last of the accused was being readied for trial; it was the blond knight, but as he was led from the stake to face the council, he shook himself free of those who held him and walked to the table unaided, his gait cocky.
“Your name?” Clyde Potter asked, nodding for him to stand nearer to the scribe.
“Gilbert de Clare.”
“Clare?” Gray’s gaze snapped to the young man. “Be you kin of the king’s former regent, William Marshall?”
“Aye,” the knight answered insolently. “William Marshall was my father’s cousin.”
Another low murmur swept the crowd, and Catherine took a step forward to see the man better. If what he said was true, he was aligned with one of the most powerful houses in all of England. William Marshall had been dead nearly fifteen years, and yet both the country and King Henry still reaped the benefits of his great influence. Henry had been crowned at the tender age of nine, but in the three years William served as his Regent, he’d guided the boy-king through the intricacies of fair and noble rule.
“Any kin of William Marshall is welcome at Ravenslock. However, you’ll still need to answer to this day’s charges against you, the same as any other,” Gray said, nodding to Stephan to release the young knight’s bonds. “What brought you so far from home, son?”
“I am no green boy to be addressed so,” Gilbert scoffed, shaking his hands and rubbing his wrists to restore the feeling in them. “My travels lead me on the same path as my renowned cousin. I intend to make a name for myself.”
“I met William Marshall several times when I was a young knight, Clare. He used violence when ’twas necessary, not for the kind of lawless brawling that took place in our village this day,” Gray chided.
Gilbert’s face went white in anger. “So you say, Camville—yet what knowyouof acting within the bounds of law?”
“Enough to ensure that you’ll receive justice here today,” Gray answered sharply. “I’ve handled many disputes as lord of my estates, with results deemed just by those who received them. Fear not. You’ll be judged most fairly.”
“I do fear the kind of justice I’ll receive,” Gilbert muttered, his eyes narrowed on Gray. “And you know why.”
Gray went silent for a beat. “I’ve given you my word, Clare, and that should be enough.” He glanced to the bailiff. “Proceed.”
“Nay! I will not accept your word for my fair treatment. Your word means nothing, for I know what is spoken of you at Court—tales of your lawlessness and crimes of the worst kind, committed when you were even younger than I!”
Several of the villagers gasped, their gazes shifting from Gilbert de Clare to Gray. Catherine felt a flare of outrage. How dared this youth accuse Gray of wrongdoing? His audacity bordered on dangerous, she knew. One look at Gray and she realized that it might well prove fatal.
“Watch your tongue, lad.” Gray’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You know nothing of what you speak.”
“Think you to keep it secret, then?” Gilbert’s face screwed into a mask of derision. “For the love of Christ, man, you slew your own sister! You’ve no right to pass judgment on me, or any of these men who have been brought before you today!”
The entire square fell silent at his horrible accusation. Catherine felt as if someone had sucked the air from her lungs, and she watched, stunned, as several of Gray’s men leapt forward, obviously intending to throttle the young knight senseless. But Gray waved them off. Catherine could see the war he waged in himself for control, and she found herself holding her breath, awaiting the outcome.
Finally he cast a sarcastic smile at Gilbert. “You continue to live right now,boy, thanks only to your tender age. Regardless of what some say, I am not a murderer of children.” His hands fisted at his sides, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “You will be tried by this jury and a judgment assessed to you for any damages you caused here this day. After that, ’tis my will that you be gone from here. Never darken my lands with your shadow again.”
