One of the great duties of a high seigneur is to render justice. It is for that (say learned men) that God grants to him power over thousands of villeins and the right to obedience from nobles of the lower class. Indeed, it can be written most properly that a good baron "is bound to hear and determine the cause and pleas of his subjects, to ordain to every man his own, to put forth his shield of righteousness to defend the innocent against evildoers, and deliver small children and such as be orphans and widows from those that do overset them. He pursues robbers, raiders, thieves, and other evildoers. For this name 'lord' is a name of peace and surety. For a good lord ceaseth war, battle, and fighting, and reconciles men that are at strife. And so under a good, strong, and peaceable lord, men of the country are safe."

The best of barons only measurably live up to this high standard. Yet Conon is not wholly exceptional in telling himself that a reputation for enforcing justice is in the end a surer glory than all the fÊtes around St. Aliquis.

Justice, of course, does not mean equality before the law. There is one legal measure for country villeins, another for citizens of the commune, another for petty nobles, another for greater nobles of Conon's own rank. The monks and priests can always "plead their clergy" and get their cases transferred to a special Church tribunal.[45] The question really is: Has a man been given everything due to others of his own class? If not, there is denial of justice.

The laws enforced in the St. Aliquis region are the old customary laws in use ever since the Frankish barbarians' invasions. Many of these laws have never been reduced to writing—at least for local purposes—but sage men know them. There are no professional jurists in the barony. Sire Eustace, the seneschal, understands the regional law better than any other layman around the castle, though he in turn is surpassed by Father GrÉgoire. The latter has, indeed, a certain knowledge of the Canon law of the Church, far more elaborate than any local territorial system, and he has even turned over voluminous parchments of the old Roman law codified by the mighty Emperor Justinian. Up at Paris, round the king there are now trained lawyers, splitters of fine hairs, who say that this Roman law is far more desirable than any local "customary law," and they are even endeavoring (as the king extends his power) to make the Code of Justinian the basis for the entire law of France. But conditions on most baronies are still pretty simple, the questions to be settled call merely for common sense and a real love of fair play on the part of the judges. One can live prosperously and die piously under rough-and-ready laws administered with great informality.

Conon has "high justice" over his vassals and peasants. This means absolute power of life and death over any non-noble on the seigneury, unless, indeed, the baron should outrage merchants bound to a privileged free city, or some other wayfarers under the specific protection of the king or the Duke of Quelqueparte. If strange noblemen get into trouble, it will depend on circumstances whether Conon undertakes to handle their cases himself, or refers them to his suzerain, the duke. The right of seigneurs to powers of justice on their own lands even over high nobles is, however, tenaciously affirmed, and it is only with difficulty the duke and, above him, the king can get some cases remitted to their tribunals.[46] If, however, the alleged offender is a monk, he will be handed over to the local abbot or, if a priest, to the bishop of Pontdebois to be dealt with according to the law of the Church.

Even the lesser sires have "low justice," with the privilege of clapping villeins in the stocks, flogging, and imprisoning for a considerable time for minor offenses; and robbers caught on their lands in the act of crime can be executed summarily. But serious cases have to go to the court of the baron as high justiciar, as well as all the petty cases which have arisen on that lord's personal dominions. If the litigants are peasants, the wheels of justice move very rapidly. There is a decided absence of formalities.

A great many disputes go before the provost's court, presided over by Sire Macaire, a knight of the least exalted class, who is Conon's "first provost." We shall see later how the baron's provosts practically control the life of the peasants.[47] One of Sire Macaire's main duties is to chase down offenders, acting as a kind of sheriff, and after that to try them. Among the brawling, brutal peasantry there is always a deplorable amount of crime. The seigneury has been blessed with a comparative absence of bandits, but ever and anon a Pontdebois merchant gets stripped, a girl is carried off into the woods, or even the body of a traveler is found by the roadside. All this renders Sire Macaire's office no sinecure.

Small penalties are handed down every day, but more serious matters must wait for those intervals when Messire Conon calls his noble vassals to his "plaids" or "assizes." Every fief holder is expected to come and to give his lord good counsel as to what ought to be done, especially if any of the litigants are noble, and also to give him material aid, if needs be, in executing the decision reached.[48] This last is very important, for if a fief holder is dissatisfied with a verdict, he has a technical right to declare the decision "unjust" and demand that it be settled by "ordeal of battle"—the duel not being between the defeated suitor and his adversary, but between this suitor and his judge!

All men know of what happened (according to the "Song of Roland") in the case of the traitor Ganelon. This scoundrel, who had betrayed his suzerain Charlemagne and had caused the brave Roland's death, was seized by the emperor, but he demanded "judgment by his peers." Charlemagne could not deny this claim. He convoked the high barons, whereupon Lord Pinabel, Ganelon's kinsman, announced that "he would give the lie with the sword" to any seigneur who voted for punishment. All the barons were afraid. Pinabel was a mighty warrior. They reported an acquittal to Charlemagne. The mighty emperor raged, but felt helpless until he discovered the brave knight Thierry of Anjou, who boldly asserted that "Ganelon deserves death."

Instantly Pinabel strode forward and cried to the assize of nobles: "I say that Thierry has lied. I will fight!" and at once Charlemagne took pledges from both champions that they would stand the "ordeal." Each warrior then promptly went to mass, partook of the Sacrament, and bestowed great gifts on the monasteries. Next they met in mortal combat. After a desperate duel Thierry smote his foe "through the nasal of the helmet ... and therewith the brain of Pinabel went gushing from his head." There was no appeal from that verdict! Well content, Charlemagne immediately caused Ganelon to be pulled asunder by four fierce stallions.

However, these noble usages are falling into decadence. Certes, it is an unknightly thing when both litigants are young cavaliers, evenly matched, and when the issue concerns honor rather than legal technicalities, for them to insist that the matter be settled merely by a peaceful verdict, as if they had been wrangling merchants. But the Church, the men of books, and the higher suzerains discourage this practice, especially when the cases are intricate, and one of the litigants cannot fight efficiently or provide a champion. As for challenging a judge after a disagreeable verdict, the thing is becoming dangerous, for all the other judges will feel bound to support him.[49]

The most likely happening is for the defeated litigant to retire to his castle, summon his followers, and defy the court to enforce its verdict. This happened with a sire of the Court of Trabey, a neighbor of Conon's. Said sire, having been ordered by his peers to give up a manor he had been withholding from his young nephew, sent a pursuivant before their tribunal formally declaring war. The entire seigneury had to arm and actually storm his castle before he would submit.

However, most St. Aliquis cases concern not the nobles, but only villeins, and with these (thanks be to Heaven!) short shrifts are permitted. The provost can handle the run of crimes when the baron is busy; but a good seigneur acts as his own judge if possible. Even during the festival period it is needful for Conon to put aside his pleasures one morning to mount the seat of justice. In wintertime the tribunal is, of course, in the great hall, but in such glorious weather a big shade tree in the garden is far preferable.[50] Here the baron occupies a high chair. Sire Eustace sits on a stool at his right, Sire AndrÉ and another vassal at his left as "assessors," for no wise lord acts without council. Father GrÉgoire stands near by, ready to administer oaths on the box of relics; Sire Macaire, the provost, brings up the litigants and acts as a kind of state attorney.

For the most part it is a sordid, commonplace business. Two villeins dispute the ownership of a yoke of oxen. A peddler from Pontdebois demands payment from a well-to-do farmer for some linen. An old man is resisting the demands of his eldest son that he be put under guardianship: the younger children say that their brother really covets the farm. If the court's decisions are not so wise as Solomon's, they are speedy and probably represent substantial justice. But there is more serious business in hand. The news of the fÊtes at St. Aliquis has been bruited abroad. All the evil spirits of the region have discovered their chance. Certain discharged mercenary soldiers have actually invaded a village, stolen the peasants' corn, pigs, and chickens, insulted their women, and crowned their deeds by firing many cottages and setting upon three jongleurs bound for the tourney. They were in the very act of robbing them to their skin when a party of the provost's men, coming up, managed to seize two of these sturdy rascals. Sire Macaire has also arrested a young peasant who stabbed an older farmer painfully while they wrangled over a calf.

This second case is settled summarily. The defendant is of bad reputation. He must stand all day in the pillory, and then to be branded on his forehead with a red-hot iron, that all men may beware of him. As for the alleged bandits, the case is not so simple. They keep a sullen silence and refuse to betray the lair of their comrades who have escaped. The provost intimates that they may be halegrins, and outlaws of the foulest type, said to violate tombs and devour human flesh. Very possibly they may have belonged to that notorious gang of brigands many of which King Philip lured inside the walls of Bourges, then closed the gates and slew them, thus capturing all their plunder. Such fellows are, of course, food for the crows, but they must not be allowed to get out of life too easily.

"Let the baron command preparatory torture?" suggests Sire Macaire, with a sinister smile. Conon nods. The two beastlike wretches groan and strain at their fetters. Preparatory torture, they know well, is inflicted both to get a confession of guilt and also to extort details about accomplices.

It is no pleasure to follow the provost, his guards, and his prisoners to a certain tower, where in a lower vaulted room there are various iron and wooden instruments. We are given to understand that torture is a pretty usual part of criminal proceedings, unless the defendant is a noble whose alleged crime does not touch the safety of the state. It is true that wise men have discouraged the practice. What seems clearer than that which Pope Nicholas I wrote A.D. 866? "A confession must be voluntary and not forced. By means of torture an innocent man may suffer to the uttermost without making any avowal—in such a case what a crime for the judge! Or a person may be subdued by pain, and acknowledge himself guilty, though he be innocent—which throws an equally great sin upon the tribunal." Nevertheless, the Church is said now to be allowing torture in her own ecclesiastical courts, and Sire Macaire would tell us cynically that "torture is a sovereign means wherewith to work miracles—to make the dumb speak."

Torture at St. Aliquis is administered by a sober-faced man in a curious yellow dress. He is known as MaÎtre Denis,[51] the baron's "sworn executioner." He acts as torturer, chief jailer, and also attends to beheadings and hangings. To be a professional hangman implies considerable ostracism. Hangmen's families have to marry among themselves, between fief and fief; hangmen's sons follow their fathers' calling. On the other hand, the position is an assured one, with good perquisites and not too much labor. MaÎtre Denis is a quiet and pious man, who can exhort condemned criminals quite as sanctimoniously as a priest; but his piety never compels him to false mercy.

There are assuredly many ways of helping transgressors to make a complete confession. Forms of torture vary from region to region. In Brittany the culprit is often tied in an iron chair and gradually brought near to a blazing fire; but in Normandy the effect seems best when one thumb is squeezed by a kind of screw in the ordinary, and both thumbs in the extraordinary (doubly severe) torture. At Autun they have an ingenious method. After high boots of spongy leather have been put on the culprit's feet, he is tied near a large fire and boiling water is poured on the boots, which penetrates the leather, eats away the flesh, and vouchsafes a foretaste of the pangs of hell.

At OrlÉans they have another method. The accused's hands are tied behind his back, and a ring fastened to them. By this ring the unhappy fellow is lifted from the floor and hung up in midair. If they then desire the "extraordinary" torture, weights of some two hundred and fifty pounds are attached to his feet. He is hoisted to the ceiling by a pulley, and presently allowed to fall with a jerk, dislocating his limbs.[52]

There are, indeed, many simpler, more convenient methods of torture. You can inject boiling water, vinegar, or oil into the accused, apply hot pitch, place hot eggs under the armpits, thrust sharp-cornered dice between the skin and flesh, tie lighted candles to the hands so that they can be consumed simultaneously with the wax, or allow water to drip from a great height upon the stomach. This, curiously enough, is said to break down the most stubborn criminals, as will watering the soles of the feet with salted water, and allowing goats to lick the same.

However, the ordinary method is the rack. Then the offender is laid on a wooden trestle, cords are bound to his limbs and then steadily tightened with winches. Baron Garnier in his day took great interest in obtaining a well-made rack. It now is put to proper use in "stretching" the two brigands. Happily, these culprits break down after the first of them has undergone a few turns before his limbs are dislocated; and to the provost's satisfaction they howl out sundry details as to how their comrades can be taken. The prisoners are therefore remanded to custody until their statements can be investigated. Woe to them if they have lied! In that event there are promised them much keener tortures to make them weary of life.

While Sire Macaire is therefore leading his band after the remaining brigands, MaÎtre Denis conducts the two captives back to prison. Really it is only a few feet from the great hall of state in the palais, to the cells under the old donjon. In their confinement the prisoners can hear the revelry of the baron's guests. Through their airholes drifts the jongleur's music. They can almost, at times, catch the swish and rustle of the rich dresses of the noblewomen. Conon is accounted a merciful custodian compared with his uncle, but he does not let offenders forget their sins because of kindness.

Noble prisoners are entitled to relatively comfortable quarters, to double rations of decent food, to give bail if their alleged offense is not a very heavy one, and to be released on reasonable ransom if they are captives of war. Villeins have no such privileges. They are fortunate if first they are not stripped naked as a pair of tongs before the lock rattles behind them. They are usually cast into filthy holes, sometimes with water running across the floor, and with reptiles breeding in the mire. In Paris, where the king is considered more tender-hearted than the average seigneur, we hear of a cell of only eleven by seven feet in which ten people have been thrust to spend the night. Of course, these were not great criminals. The latter might enjoy the chausse d' hypocras, where a man had his feet continually in water, or the fosse, a jug-shaped round chamber let into the bowels of the rock, into which prisoners must be lowered by a pulley from the ceiling;[53] or a Little-Ease chamber, where one could neither sit nor stand. If, however, you have money you can sometimes bribe the turnkeys into letting you have a cell more private and less noisome, with the luxury of bedding and a chair;[54] but in any case he who enters a feudal prison had better invoke his patron saint.

MaÎtre Denis has not treated the two brigands quite so badly as lay in his power. He has left them their clothes—since they are sure to be executed and he can get the raiment later. He has not put them in the fosse (where Baron Garnier had sometimes dropped his victims) because of the trouble later of hoisting them out. He gives them coarse bread and some meat not unfit for dogs, at the same time advising them "on his word as a Christian" to confer with Father GrÉgoire.

The miserable pair are not long uncertain about their fate. They have told the truth about the lair of their comrades. The provost's band surprises the spot. Six hardened rogues, in the very act of counting their plunder, are overpowered. But why weary Messire the Baron with the empty form of trying these robbers when there is no mortal doubt of their guilt and no new information is to be extracted from them? Their throats are therefore cut as unceremoniously as the cook's boy attends to pigeons. The next day, wholly casually, Sire Macaire reports his good success to his lord, and remarks, "I presume, fair Sire, that Denis can hang the two he has in the dungeon." Conon (just arranging a hawking party) rejoins: "As soon as the chaplain can shrive them." Why, again, should the prisoners complain? They are certainly allowed to prepare decently for the next world, a favor entirely denied their comrades.

If there had been any real doubt as to the guilt of the two bandits, they might in desperation have tried to clear themselves by ordeal. If they could have picked a stone out of a caldron of boiling water, lifted and carried a red-hot iron, or even partaken of the Holy Sacrament (first calling on God to strike them dead if they were guilty), and after such a test seemed none the worse, they might have had some claim to go free. Ordeals are an old Germanic usage. They seem to refer the decision to all-seeing God. But ever since Charlemagne's day they have been falling into disfavor. Great churchmen are ordinarily too intelligent to encourage them. Men learned in the law say that often they wrest justice. Brave knights declare the only ordeal worth having is a duel between two champions.

Sometimes, instead of wrangling, clerics have undertaken to prove themselves right by "passing through fire"—walking down a narrow lane between two great piles of blazing fagots, and trusting that Heaven will guard them even as it did the three Hebrew children in Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. Such tests seldom are satisfactory. Men still dispute about the ordeal of the monk Peter Barthelmey during the First Crusade. He was accused of a pretended miracle and tried to vindicate himself by "passing through fire alive." All agreed that he emerged from the flames alive; yet in a few days he died. His foes said because he was sorely burned; his friends because, although unscathed by the fire, he was merely trampled upon by the crowd that rushed up to discover his fate!

The only time one can ordinarily rely upon ordeals is in tests for witchcraft. If an old woman is so accused, she must be tied hand and foot and cast into the river. If she floats, the devil is aiding; draw her out, therefore, and burn her at the stake. If she sinks (as in a case recently at Pontdebois) she is innocent. Unfortunately, in this instance the poor wretch went to the bottom before they could determine that she was guiltless; but the saints know their own, and doubtless they have given recompense and rest to her soul.

Naturally many petty offenses do not deserve death. The criminals are usually too poor to pay fines, and it is a waste of honest folk's bread to let them spend set terms in prison. For small misdemeanants it is often enough to drive the rascals around the neighboring villages in a cart, calling out their names amid hootings and showers of offal. But in the village beyond the Claire is located the pillory for a large class of rogues. It is a kind of high scaffold with several sets of chains and wooden collars, through which the offenders' arms and heads are thrust, while they stand for hours, in hot sun or winter cold, exposed to the jeerings and pebbles of the assembled idlers gathered beneath.

The next stage of penalty is sometimes a public flogging. The prisoner is stripped to the waist and driven around the seigneury. At each crossroads his guards give so many blows over the shoulders with a knotted rope. We have seen how branding was ordered for one young miscreant to put on him an ineffaceable stigma; and not infrequently one can meet both men and women with a hand lopped off, or even an eye gouged out, as a merciful substitute for their true deserts upon the gallows. Old Baron Garnier once, when peculiarly incensed, ordered the "hot bowl"—namely, that a red-hot brazier should be passed before the eyes of his victim until sight was destroyed.

But if a villein has committed a great crime he were best dismissed from an overtroubled world. Dead men never bother the provost twice. All over France you will find a gallows almost as common a sight in the landscape as a castle, an abbey, or a village. Many a fine spreading tree by the roadway has a skeleton be-dangling from one of its limbs. It is a lucky family of peasants which has not had some member thereof hanged, and even then plenty of rogues will die in their beds. Considering the general wickedness abroad, it seems as if there were a perpetual race between the criminals and the hangmen, with the criminals well to the fore.[55]

There are almost as many forms of execution as there are of torture. Fearful criminals, gross blasphemers, and the like might be killed by quartering: first their flesh might be nipped off by red-hot pinchers and hot lead poured into their wounds; then death comes as a release by attaching a strong horse to each arm and leg and tearing the victim into four parts. Witches, wizards, and heretics are, of course, burned, because they thus share the element of their patron, the devil. Most malefactors, however, find beheading or hanging the ordinary ending.

Beheading is "honorable." It is the nobleman's expiation for misdeeds. The victim is not degraded and leaves no stigma upon his children. In England the headsman uses the ax, but in France he ordinarily swings a great two-handed sword. A skillful executioner does his business at one blow—a most merciful form of mortal exit.

Hanging, however, is "dishonorable." Nobles who have especially exasperated their judges are sometimes subjected to it. Henceforth people will cry, "Their father was a felon," to their disgraced children. When a villein is ordered to die, he is ordinarily hanged, unless some other method is specified. In the village near St. Aliquis the gallows is near the pillory. It is not so large as that huge gallows at Montfaucon, near Paris, which sees the end of so many of the city offenders, and where there is a great series of stone piers with wooden crosspieces, arranged in two stories, making twenty-four compartments in all. There are permanent ladders fixed for dragging up the criminals. When all the compartments are full and additional room is needed for more executions, some of the skeletons are thrown into a deep, hideous pit in the center of the structure. The less pretentious St. Aliquis gallows has only four compartments. The structure stands close to the road, that all may learn how energetic are the baron's provosts. Two compartments are now empty, however, and Sire Macaire is glad of a chance to fill them.

Because the two bandits made prompt confession they are not subjected now to a "previous" torture—that is, to a new racking as an extra punishment before execution. They are compelled, however, to perform the amende honorable. This involves being haled to the parish church in the village. A long candle is thrust in the hands of each victim. They are dragged forward by a noose, and at the door of the church cast themselves down and cry; "We have grievously sinned against Heaven. Our punishment is just. We beg pardon of God and man. May Heaven have mercy upon our souls!" Then they are forced back to the cart whereon they are being trundled to execution.

"Riding the cart" is a familiar phrase for going to the gallows. For a noble prisoner to be compelled to take his last journey upon a cart, instead of cavalier-wise upon a horse, is the last touch of degradation. The two bandits, securely pinioned, are placed in a two-wheeled vehicle, attended by MaÎtre Denis and an assistant, and with Father GrÉgoire repeating prayers. They seem followed by all the lewd fellows of the baser sort in the entire region, and even certain knights and dames, come for the tournament, are not above craning their necks and gazing after the noisy procession. A hanging is just infrequent enough in St. Aliquis to afford a little excitement. At the gallows MaÎtre Denis acts with a fearful dexterity. First one, next the other, criminal is dragged up the ladder with the noose about his neck, then swung off into eternity with a merciful speed. A good hangman does not let his victims suffer long. Soon a great flock of crows will be flapping around the gallows, giving the last rites to the lawbreakers, and the ogling crowd will slink away.

The poor wretches are fortunate in that their anguish is not prolonged by such customs as obtain at Paris. There many death carts stop at the Convent of the Filles-Dieu, where the nuns are obligated to give every condemned criminal a glass of wine and three pieces of bread. This pathetic meal is seldom refused, and a great throng will stand gaping about until it is consumed. Father GrÉgoire, too, had mercifully refrained from a long public exhortation at the gallows as to how, literally, "the wages of sin is death," another custom ere offenders are turned off. But after the deed is over, confessor, executioner, and provost do not decline their perquisite after every such ceremony—a liberal banquet at the castle.

These proceedings have been unpleasant but not unusual interludes between such happenings as the wedding and the adubbement. It is time to return to young Squire Aimery, and see how he has been educated and "nourished" preparatory to the greatest event in his life.