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.
[Sidenote: High and Low Justice]
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."
[Sidenote: Ordeal by Battle]
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.
[Sidenote: Trial of Villeins]
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.
[Sidenote: Varieties of Tortures]
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.
[Sidenote: Prisoners and Dungeons]
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.
[Sidenote: Ordeals, the Pillory and Flogging]
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]
[Sidenote: The Public Gallows]
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.
[Sidenote: Ceremonies at an Execution]
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.
FOOTNOTES:
[45] See pp. 379, 380.
[46] Of course, a seigneur who grossly molested a peaceable traveling
knight, or, for that matter, a villein in lawful errand going through
the barony, could be cited before his suzerain's own tribunal for
"denial of justice," and might (in clear-cut cases) have his whole
position put in jeopardy.
[47] See p. 380.
[48] On account of the expense and trouble involved in attending the
suzerain's court, and because of the risks of acting as judge, this
feudal obligation was often poorly discharged.
[49] It was clearly recognized, also, that the "right of duel" was
subject to abuses, and successful efforts were made to limit it to (1)
very serious offenses; (2) cases where there was no direct evidence,
but only circumstantial evidence, against the accused.
[50] The case of Louis IX holding court under a great tree in the royal
forest at Vincennes will be recalled as typical of this custom.
[51] Outside the barony he would probably be known by the name of the
seigneury he served--_e.g._, "Maître St. Aliquis." Down to the verge of
the Revolution the chief hangman of the capital of France was "Monsieur
Paris."
[52] This method of torture by "squasations" seems to have been the one
ordinarily used in the Inquisition, which began its unhappy history in
the thirteenth century.
[53] This was one of the famous _Oubliettes_ ("Chambers of
Forgetfulness") or _Vade-in-pace_ (Depart-in-peace) cells where the
prisoners could be left to starve in pitch darkness, or perhaps be fed
by a few scraps flung down from the hole in the vaulting.
[54] It was a great concession in the Paris prisons when the government
ordered that the jailers in the more public wards should "keep large
basins on the pavement, so that the prisoners might get water whenever
they wished."
[55] Of course, the terrible severity of the penalties made many
persons who were guilty of relatively small offenses feel that they had
sinned beyond pardon. They would, therefore, plunge into a career of
great crimes, to "have their fling" ere the inevitable gallows.