“This is my doom,” said Shef. “The land shall remain with Leofwin for the rest of his ten-year lease.” Leofwin’s red face brightened into a beam of triumph.
“But he shall render an account of his gains each year to my thane at Lynn, whose name is—”
“Bald,” said a black-robed figure standing by a writing-desk to Shef’s right.
“Whose name is Bald. At the end of the ten years, if the gain on the property seems more than is reasonable to Bald, Leofwin shall either pay the extra gain for the whole ten years to the grandson in this case, or else he shall pay a sum to be fixed by Bald, equal in value to the worth the land has lost during his stewardship. And the choice shall be made by the grandfather, here present today.”
One face lost its beam, the other brightened. Then both faces took on an identical expression of anxious calculation. Good, thought Shef. Neither is altogether happy. So they will respect my decision.
He rose. “The bell has struck. The dooms-giving is over for today.” A babble of protest, men and women pushing forward from the waiting ranks.
“It will begin again tomorrow. You have your tally-sticks? Show them as you enter and cases will be heard in proper order.” Shef’s voice rose strongly above the babble.
“And all mark this! In the court of the Way there is neither Christian nor pagan, neither Wayman nor Englishman. See—I bear no pendant. And Father Boniface here”—he pointed to the black-robed scribe—”priest though he is, he bears no cross. Justice here does not depend on faith. Mark it and tell it. Now go. The hearing is over.”
The doors at the back of the room swung open. Attendants began to urge the disappointed litigants outside into the spring sunshine. Another, the hammer-sign stitched neatly onto his gray tunic, waved the two disputants of the last case over toward Father Boniface, to see the jarl’s doom written out twice and witnessed, one copy to remain in the jarl’s scriptorium, the other to be torn carefully in two and divided between the litigants, so that neither could present a forgery at some future court.
Through the rear doors there stalked a massive figure, head and shoulders above the people pushing out, in mail and cloak, but unarmed. Shef felt the lonely gloom of judgement suddenly lighten.
“Brand! You are back! You come just at the right moment, when I am free to talk.”
Shef felt his hand gripped in one the size of a quart tankard, saw his own beaming smile answered.
“Not quite, lord jarl. I came two good hours ago. Your guards would not let me through, and with all those halberds waving and never a word of Norse among the lot of them I had not the heart to argue.”
“Hah! They should—No. My orders are to let no one interrupt court of doom except for news of war. They did right. But I am sorry I did not think to make an exception for you. I would have liked you to attend the court and say what you thought of it.”
“I heard.” Brand jerked a thumb behind him. “The head of your guards there was a catapulteer and knew me, though I did not know him. He brought me good ale—excellent ale, after a sea-voyage, to wash out the salt—and told me to listen through the door.”
“And what did you think?” Shef turned Brand about and strolled with him through the now-cleared doorway into the courtyard outside. “What did you think of the jarl’s assembly?”
“I am impressed. When I think of what this place was like four months ago—mud everywhere, warriors snoring on the floor for lack of beds, never a kitchen in sight and no food to cook in it. And now. Guards. Chamberlains. Bakeries and brewhouses. Woodwrights fixing shutters and gangs painting everything that doesn’t move. Men to ask your name and business. And writing it down when you tell them.”
Then Brand frowned and looked about, lowered his enormous voice to an unpracticed whisper. “Shef—lord jarl, I should say. One thing. Why all these blackrobes? Can you trust them? And what in the name of Thor is a jarl doing, a lord of warriors, listening to a couple of muttonheads arguing about drains? You’d be better off shooting catapults. Or in the forge even.”