Iain Pears - Arcadia

‘Cruelty cannot be hidden. It does not well up once and then go away for ever, never to be seen again. A woman that cruel, that violent, that cunning would have such traits deep in her soul. They would show themselves again and again, in a word, a deed, a thought. They would have to, for “cruelty owns the soul, and bends men to its will”.

‘Where is that cruelty? In what way has the Lady of Willdon shown it? In her punishments of transgressors? I think not; she is known for her mercy. In her rapacity over taxes? She is known for her generosity. What about the way she treats those who work for her? She is greatly loved and respected, is she not? So where does this cruel beast linger? Tell me who has ever glimpsed its claws, or been stung by its fangs.

‘No. We must search elsewhere to understand the death of Thenald. Listen to me, and I will tell you where to direct your gaze.

‘Two days ago, I was summoned to the bedside of Callan, son of Perel, forester of Willdon, familiar to many here. He was on his deathbed, and I was asked to take his story. I am not allowed to tell you what he said, you all know this. However, I intend to do so now, because Callan urged me to use what he had said at the proper time. It is not something I do lightly, but I believe custom should serve the truth, not obscure it. You may judge whether I have acted correctly when I am finished.

‘I met Callan when I was eleven; he was a soldier then, and took me to Ossenfud. This was shortly before the death of Thenald. When he delivered me to Ossenfud, he said he was going straight back home to Willdon. Not long after, Thenald died and, curiously, Callan hurried back to his barracks and signed on for another term of service, even though he hated the life of a soldier, even though he missed his forest. He did not return to his home for three years.

‘When I took his story, he told me he left Willdon out of fear. He was afraid of being condemned for the murder of the Lord of Willdon.’

A nicely timed pause here. Jay gave the audience a moment to absorb his words. Many knew Callan and were shocked by what he had said.

‘It was Callan’s knife that had inflicted the wounds, his knife that cut Thenald’s throat and stopped his heart. It had happened in a part of the forest where he lived. All knew that Callan had hated Thenald for the reckless way he was chopping down trees without thought or caution, for the cruel way he exploited the laws.

‘He had the chance to kill, he had a reason, and the weapon was his. He told me that he pulled the knife from the body, wiped it clean, and returned to the army until he judged it was safe. He never spoke of it to anyone.

‘Here it is. This is the knife which killed Thenald.’

Jay took out the knife and held it aloft, then walked round the circle. All gazed transfixed at it, and at him. Many nodded in recognition as Jay then placed it at the base of the altar.

‘It would be easy for me to win my case by saying that Callan had murdered Thenald and confessed on his deathbed. You would take my word for it, as I am bound by the story-taker’s oath. There is no one to contradict me. I will not say it; Callan was a good man, and my friend, and I will not tarnish his memory by accusing him of a crime he did not commit. Too many have suffered that already.

‘So I say that Callan pulled the knife out of Thenald’s heart, but he had not thrust it in. Who did, then? Was it Pamarchon? No, Callan said, may he forgive me. I saw him an hour later, coming back to the house from an entirely different direction. He could not possibly have done it. Was it Catherine? This was no woman’s crime, he said. Only a strong man could have driven that into Thenald’s chest. Then who? Was it... Scholar Gontal, perhaps?’

Jay pointed at Gontal. You see, the gesture suggested, I will be as ruthless as you are, if I must.

‘I do not know that name, Callan told me, but he was no scholar. He was a stranger to these parts, asking the way to Willdon. I fed him, let him sleep in my hut. The next morning he had gone, and my knife also. I never saw him again.

‘What was his name? I asked. He did not know. The man had said he did not have one. No name, no family.

‘So I asked him: if he knew who had done it, why did he run? It was simple, he replied. He was ashamed. He allowed Pamarchon to take the blame, for fear of being blamed himself; he did not think anyone would believe his story of a mysterious stranger stealing his knife. No one else had met or seen this man, after all. He thought people would say he had invented it as a weak excuse to hide his guilt. Can anybody here say they would not have done as Callan did in such a circumstance?

‘He kept that knife until he was close to death himself, and gave it to me yesterday, as payment for taking his story and in the hope that I might correct the wrongs he had committed.

‘Then my friend, the good forester, lapsed into silence, perhaps his last. I have his story; if I lie now, you may soon enough look for yourselves. But remember: the one person with any real knowledge of this crime was prepared to use his final breath to tell me that both Catherine of Willdon and Pamarchon, son of Isenwar, were wholly, completely and totally innocent of Thenald’s death. Think of that as you reach your verdict, I beg you.’

Jay had departed so far from orthodoxy that no one had any idea what to do when he fell silent and retired to the side, shaky from his effort. Certainly Jay had no idea. His refusal to make his case in the required way so disrupted proceedings that, in effect, the trial collapsed. Ordinarily, he would have finished his speech; the accused — both of them in this case — would have delivered a shorter discourse disputing the use of quotations by the other; the presiding authority would have made some remarks; and the assembled multitude would have voted.

That, clearly, could not happen now. No one knew what to do, or what they were supposed to vote for or even — now that Esilio had appeared among them — whether they were meant to vote. This gave Gontal his chance to reassert himself.

‘A poor speech, excusable in one so young, I suppose. I would have expected better from Henary’s star pupil. What? Not a single reference to authority? A case so thin it can claim no parallel to anything in the whole of the Story Hall? Revealing the contents of a story while the teller is still alive? I could depart from custom as well, were I also undisciplined and lazy. I could say that Pamarchon and Catherine were in league together, for example. Certainly a shadow hangs over both. I recommend once more that the question be postponed. Willdon needs a new Lord urgently, but it cannot possibly choose anyone with the faintest hint of crime about them. Either or both of these two may be guilty still; Master Jay’s speech has cleared up nothing.

‘I am prepared to accept that neither can be convicted, and so will not press for penalties against them. But unless the truth is revealed, will you dare choose one of them as your Lord?’

Lytten weighed up his options. How did this work? Did whatever he said instantly become true because he had said it? Did reality conform to his thoughts, or was it now that his thoughts had to conform to reality? A most peculiar question, a dilemma that he imagined no one else had ever had to deal with.

‘Rosie? What do I do now?’

‘I don’t know. But it had better be quick,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I don’t like the look on Gontal’s face. He looks like someone who is thinking of testing your spiritual qualities with an arrow.’

‘Is he indeed? The cheek of the man.’

Lytten prepared his best lecturing voice, honed over the years so that it was clear and penetrating. He prided himself on being able to wake up a slumbering undergraduate at thirty paces, when in the mood.