The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats Page A

“They haven’t found her body yet?”
    My father shakes his head and pours himself a mug of undiluted wine. “Black Reese swears he’s never laid eyes on the girl, but the bailiffs have him in the darkest hole in Caernarvon. He’ll confess soon enough.”
    â€œDo you suppose he really did it?”
    My father shrugs. “No reason he wouldn’t.”
    I chew my bread thoughtfully. “If he did abduct her, what does he gain by denying it? Would he not instead demand a ransom?”
    My father bangs his mug down. “Jesu, Cecily, the burgesses are doing the whole castlery a favor by sending this cur to meet his Maker.”
    â€œBut isn’t it unlawful to—”
    â€œEnough! The man is guilty of
something!
”
    I nod slowly because I know better than to challenge that tone, but if Black Reese is to be hanged for something, it should at least be a crime he’s actually committed.

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    T HE priest’s boy comes to the door. He asks if I know of anyone in the vale who is missing a baby.
    Long past sundown. On my feet all day. Wrung out like a rag. But the word stills my hand on the kettle.
    â€œBaby?”
    The servant nods. “Girl-baby. Two milk-teeth on top. She doesn’t say a word, so they don’t know her name. Yellow curly hair. Like a little angel, they say.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œA herdsman out in Llanrug found her. Cadwallon ap Goronwy. His wife is called Gwladys. No one they know recognizes the little lass. They’ve no idea what to do. They’re too old to raise another.” The boy shakes his head. “Poor little thing. Her mam and da must be frantic.”
    Girl-baby. Curly yellow hair. Like a little angel.
    It cannot be. It’s too far. And without the walls.
    It has to be. Her mam and da
are
frantic.
    Release a long breath. “The baby belongs within the walls. She’s an
honesti
baby.”
    The boy crosses himself, babbles a string of oaths. “Christ help us. What’ll I tell the herdsman?”
    â€œTell him . . .” Grit my teeth. No way out but through. “Tell him to bring the baby to the Saturday market and hand her over to the gatemen.”
    The boy gapes. “I’ll not! You’re mad!”
    â€œEnglish will praise the Almighty to find the baby alive.” Press a hand to my eyes. “Besides, would it be better for English to find the baby at Cadwallon’s steading? They’ll go croft to croft soon enough.”
    The boy shudders, reluctantly nods, takes his leave.
    By dying firelight, look down at Mam curled like a stringy corpse beneath her blankets.
Honesti
mother had better thank God on her knees for the safe return of her child. It’s a lot more than some mothers get.

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    M Y FATHER has been given an office of charge. He says it’s almost unheard of that a burgess so new to the privileges is entrusted with responsibility in the borough government, and he does his mad capering dance the length and breadth of my workroom before all the neighbors of Shire Hall Street.
    I would we had better shutters.
    He is now Officer of the Town Mills. He is charged to regularly visit the two mills, the one on the Cadnant and the one at Porth Mawr. He’s to survey the grindstones and ensure that the millers take no more than their due and that the quality of the flour is acceptable. The Officer of the Town Mills is also required to regularly ride through both the castlery and the Welshry to ensure that no man has a handmill, and if any man is grinding his own grain, to bring him before borough court for amercement.
    My father is very proud of his office of charge. We have a haunch of mutton and sage wine to celebrate. His office will give him something to do and keep him out of trouble. And hopefully out of my workroom, too.
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    Mistress Tipley and I are heading home with the day’s bread when we hear an earsplitting shriek near the