The Judge Itinerant - Chapter One

Writer’s note: As promised in my recent blog post, this month’s short piece is the first chapter of my recently trunked first novel ‘The Judge Itinerant’, as a way to say goodbye to the book before I throw it with the metaphorical clutter in the metaphorical attic. In this first chapter, our eponymous character arrives in a rural community to find some problems and brings some bad news.

The Judge Itinerant - Chapter One

The road had been metalled, once. Perhaps the area had been part of an Islander colony – Gijsbert could not see how else it would have been constructed. But, if that were the case, it was over a millennium old and looked it. It was poorly maintained. Far too big a road for the area it was servicing – just a collection of villages and small towns. Not worth the maintenance, even if the local people knew how. Thrown this way and that by its uneven surface, Gijsbert wished they had.

He was sitting in the back of a cart – carriage was too grandiose a term – surrounded by his belongings. Books, mostly. Legal treatises and the like. One of those books was in his hands, though he was having quite a time trying to read it – or even trying to hold onto it. As he was jogged up again, his arm almost knocked the flintlock pistol he had loaded and hidden under a spare blanket. Scowling, he tried to keep his eyes on the page but could not. He put the book down and turned to the man leading the cart.

‘Aart, boy, try to keep it steady, will you?’ he demanded in a gnarled voice.

‘Aye, old man. I’m doing my best. Me and the Lady both.’ Aart clicked affectionately at Lady, the mule dragging them behind her with such disregard for comfort, before turning to flash Gijsbert a mischievous grin.

Aart was a young man. A little too energetic and headstrong as far as Gijsbert was concerned, but useful to have around. His auburn hair fell loose onto his pale face. He was broad chested, strong, even if he was more fat than muscled, and fancied himself something like Gijsbert’s guard, regardless of what Gijsbert himself thought. At least he knew his way around a mule. And that rifled musket standing up next to him. Gijsbert shook his head and tried to lie back in the cart. It smacked him in the head for his trouble.

They were travelling through the countryside, on the way to a new village. Another one. On the one side, a forest was threatening to spill out and take over the road. Its trees were mostly silver birch. Lined up together, all straight and spindly, they resembled an army, awaiting its orders. A few hares darted between them. To their other side lay open meadows left fallow for grazing. They buzzed and chirped and squeaked as the wind weaved through the long grass.

The road carried on straight. Definitely an old Islander road. They barely ever curved, except the avoid hills or follow rivers, and even then only begrudgingly. Gijsbert looked at his pocket-watch. Assuming they had not dropped pace since the last milestone, they would arrive within the hour. It would have been a pleasant journey, if not for the jolts. The day was warm, but with a breeze. Gijsbert had removed his coat, loosened his cravat and shirt, and kicked off his black boots. The coat was lying next to him, carefully folded. It was a quite ridiculous thing: thick wool dyed a stark white – or what had originally been a stark white, before the realities of the itinerant life caught up with it. The tails descended to the back of the knee. They were perhaps the least white of the whole grey affair.

A figure emerged from the woods. Dirty and wearing the wide, floppy hats so common amongst the rural peasantry of the east, Gijsbert found that his most important feature was the pistol he carried pointed at Aart. A flash of movement alerted him to another man, musket in hand, coming at them from behind.

‘Halt,’ cried their first accoster. ‘Hand over any money and jewellery and you can be on your way.’

With a nervous look towards Gijsbert, Aart began to slow the cart. His face asked what they should do.

‘Good man,’ Gijsbert said, keeping his voice as affable as he could, ‘I fear you have chosen a poor target to rob. I am a judge itinerant – all you shall find on me is legal texts and some small smattering of coin. Hardly, I am sure you will agree, worth the trouble. Especially when you know as well as I how any local magistrates would react to a man of my position falling victim to banditry in his jurisdiction.’

Uncertainty flashed across the pistoleer’s face. His companion turned to him.

‘Maybe we should just—’, he began.

‘No,’ said the first. ‘What would they say if we came back with nothing?’ He turned back to the cart. ‘Just hand over all you have, quick-like. Don’t be stupid.’

Gijsbert held up his hands. ‘Indeed. We won’t be. Aart, give the man—’

The crack of musket-fire took away the rest of his words. Gijsbert looked wide eyed at the would-be thieves to see which had fired and at whom, but each was as shocked as him. Smoke came from Aart’s rifle. Eynas Idarniso, Gijsbert cursed, the boy is going to get us killed. Not a moment later, Aart cajoled Lady into a run such as she had never performed before. At that cue, the bandits were snapped out of their surprise.

Both raised their pieces at the fleeing cart and fired in quick succession. Gijsbert hit the floor and prayed for his life. One shot thudded into the dirt. The other smashed into the back of the cart and through it but continued – blessedly – without hitting him. Gijsbert sat up. The bandits were following them at a run and closing on the cart, so desperately pulled by its single terrified mule.

Reaching under his blanket, Gijsbert pulled out his pistol and brandished it at the bandits.

‘Stop or I shoot,’ he shouted. The pistol rattled in his unsteady grip.

The one slowed and then the other. Both darted back into the woods, out of his sight and that of his weapon. He kept eyes on the woods, hoping that they would stay away. A minute later, though it felt an hour, he accepted than they had and collapsed back into his seat, his chest heaving.

He turned on Aart.

‘What were you thinking!’ he demanded.

The boy slowed Lady to a walk. She looked exhausted – Gijsbert only hoped she could pull them the rest of the way to their destination. The prospect of walking did not excite him.

‘Well I thought I would hit one. Can’t believe I missed.’

‘That, boy, is so very far from the problem. You risked both our lives for a few marks and thalers – money we do not even need given my position. It was stupid and reckless and as likely to get us killed as not.’

‘They were trying to rob us,’ said Aart. The dismay in his voice was evident. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a font of justice, yet you would allow the law to be broken without a fight? Even when the infraction is against you yourself?’

‘Boy, there are times when it is better to endure the small injustice to prevent a larger one – such as both of us being murdered. The law is not so fragile as to be unable to stand against such infractions. Its memory is long and its patience great. It certainly does not benefit from imbeciles getting themselves killed unnecessarily.’

Aart didn’t reply to that, instead keeping his eyes fixed upon the road in front of him and saving his words for Lady, flagging as she was. Gijsbert felt guilty for having insulted the boy but was hardly about to apologise to someone who had almost led to his death. The boy would learn. Would grow up.

The cart crested a hill to their collective delight. Lady’s most of all, Gijsbert was sure. It was hardly the largest of hills, but it did give a view of the valley below. Following the road with his eyes, Gijsbert spotted smoke rising out of a collection of clustered houses, perhaps two miles away. The village, at long last. A thin river snaked its way across the land. Between river and the village stood a hill, clearly unnatural given how flat the rest of the valley was, with a castle affixed to its top. Old looking. Certainly out of date as a military installation. Perhaps dating back to the era of Idnedian rule, or even to Savarian, or Semagnean, before that. The village was not the only one in the valley basin – another lay over the river to the east and, Gijsbert thought, a third could just be made out at the far northern end. The cart continued on.

The downward slope was a gift to Lady and one she made full use of. As she continued, Gijsbert began to make out a group of people on the road coming towards them. They got closer and revealed themselves to be an armed group of men dressed in the same rural garb the bandits had been. Their compatriots? If so, Aart really had just gotten the both of them killed.

Gijsbert’s mind ran wild. Perhaps they could give over their valuables quickly and be on their way before the larger group realised what had happened. Perhaps they could pretend to have already been robbed, but that would not stand up to the scrutiny of a search. He could throw away his purse to add credence to the ruse, but would they see him do so? And had this new group heard the reports of the muskets? That would make things more difficult. At least Aart had not had the chance to reload his piece. Gijsbert resolved to take the initiative.

‘We wish you no trouble,’ he said as they approached. ‘I am a judge itinerant with little in the way of monies but will offer you all we have for safe passage onwards.’

The group looked at him with collectively blank faces. One, of average proportions with no remarkable features, elbowed another.

‘He thinks we’re bandits, Martijn.’

The one identified as Martijn broke into a grin. He was in the middle of the group, a position of leadership, with a musket that looked standard issue for the Daastrijnian army slung over one shoulder.

‘Apologies, good judge, that we have scared you,’ he said. ‘But we are merely honest villagers who heard shots and came to investigate. We have had trouble with bandits these past weeks – ever since news of recent events reached our valley – and hoped to confront them in numbers.’

He was a little shorter than most Daastrijnians, with arms like tree-trunks. The man had a craggy face, which likely would have been pale if not for some significant time in the sun, and stern eyes. What little of his thin brown hair was left clung desperately to his scalp. His moustache was odd. An idiosyncrasy in a country that tended to prefer its men clean-shaven.

‘Not at all, good man,’ Gijsbert replied. ‘We were accosted by such men as you speak of on the road here but, thanks to the reckless abandon of my companion here, escaped with our lives and purses intact.’

‘Then we can only apologise that you had to suffer such unpleasantness, good judge. Please do not think any less of us for it – we have no magistrates to speak of nor any way of combatting the bastar— the bandits. Truthfully, none can remember when such men last threatened Prijnandeet. Our only consolation is that we have managed to capture one, posing as a traveller to rob our very village.’

‘To capture one? Has he yet stood trial?’

‘She, good judge,’ said Martijn. ‘And no – though with your arrival I’m thankful that we won’t have to drag her a few days journey to the nearest magistrate. It is an odd situation, but we can explain it later. Please, let us escort you. My wife and I are the proprietors of the village’s public house. And I must ask: are you intending to stay and ply your trade, good judge, or merely passing through?’

‘The former. Please, lead on.’

It did not take long to cover the rest of the distance. Lady was flagging but Aart managed to cajole her into keeping up her pondering walk. Before anyone else could see them, Gijsbert did up his shirt, squeezed into his boots, donned his coat, and set a tricorne cocked hat upon his bald head. He was sweltering by the time their cart turned off the road and onto the smaller path leading into the village.

People stopped and stared as they made their way through. They had accumulated quite the parade by the time they stopped on what must have been the edge of the village green, right next to the largest structure in the whole place. Whispers of ‘judge’ swirled around them. Gijsbert rose, the extra height of the cart leaving him towering above his escort and the new crowd as he issued the old proclamation.

‘Hear me, good people. I come in the name of the Crown and the General Court of the Estates to deliver justice to the good subjects of Daastrijn. The King calls upon you to bring out those to be judged and to aid me in my duties.’

A few of the older members of the crowd nodded. They had seen it before and seemed happy to know that the words had not changed. They put much stock on those words. Though a few muttered something to the effect of ‘what bloody king?’. Younger people looked up with wide eyes, as if they were expecting more. Perhaps for Gijsbert to pull a bird out of his coat. The arrival of a judge itinerant was good entertainment, after all. One of a village’s few contacts with the world outside of their immediate vicinity and the closest they got to the concept of government.

Once everyone seemed suitably impressed, Gijsbert sprung – rather lithely, he thought – down from the cart and allowed himself to be led into the building by Martijn and another couple of the armed men. The rest of the crowd waited at the door. In time, the adults would no doubt lose interest and return to their duties. The children would surely get bored too, eventually, though not soon enough for Gijsbert’s taste.

He was led through to the public house’s common room. It was large enough for trial to be held there. Gijsbert was thankful. The alternative would have been to hold it on the green and the wind was never kind to his papers. A large rectangular table sat in the middle. A good, solid thing. Old, but well maintained. Around it were seated a few too many chairs for comfort, no two of which matched. The best chairs in the village, most likely, with no regard for consistency.

Along the edge of the room were smaller tables, pressed into the corners and against the walls that contained the two doors out of the room. One, they had entered through. The other most likely led to the kitchens. At the far end of the room was a staircase leading up to the next floor. A fireplace was set up in one of the walls, with freshly chopped wood stacked up against it, but thankfully no fire raging inside. Pegs hung above the hearth and it was upon them that Martijn set down his musket. The others put their weapons against the walls.

At the direction of the only man to have spoken to him yet, Gijsbert sat at the head of the main table. It held some sliced bread and a jug of ale, which was immediately poured for him as guest-gift. He took a sip to accept the gift. The other men took chairs on either side.

In short order, two women emerged from upstairs and took seats next to the men. From their mannerisms, Gijsbert assumed that one, the shorter of the two, was married to Martijn. She was a little older, with greying hair tied into a bun behind her head. A slight woman, she looked cut from hard stuff, with an olive-tinged face that bore the sun’s mark. She spoke up once she had taken her seat.

‘Greetings, good judge. I am sure that my husband has already expressed our gratitude at your arrival.’ The look she gave her husband let it be known that she was in fact less than sure. A stern expression, but not without affection. ‘My name is Annalieka, good sir, and you shall be a guest of myself and my husband while you stay here. What is your name, may I ask?’

‘Thank you for your hospitality. I am Gijsbert Jerrin, judge itinerant in service of the Crown. And everyone else’s name?’

The woman now identified as Annalieka went a curious shade of crimson and turned to her husband. ‘You didn’t…’ she began, before composing herself and looking back towards Gijsbert. The parting glance she gave her husband promised firm words once they were alone. ‘This is my sister, Femke. Her husband is Henk over there, next to young Diederik. And in case he forgot even his own introductions, this is my long suffering, and long suffered, husband Martijn.’

The door opened and Aart lumbered in, holding one end of Gijsbert’s trunk. The other was held by a village boy of an age with him.

‘If you will excuse me, good judge,’ said Annalieka, rising from her chair, ‘I will show the boys to your room and set it up for you. You will have one to yourself, of course.’

‘Thank you,’ Gijsbert replied. ‘I shall likely retire early. But first, tell me something of the cases you have for me. Of this bandit you say you have captured.’ He turned towards those still seated at the table. It was Annalieka’s husband, Martijn, who replied, yet again.

‘It is an odd situation. She’s a foreigner. Doesn’t speak a word of Daastrijnian. Medanasi, we think, going by her complexion. She stole some coin and other valuables, her and another man who arrived claiming to be travellers. Her we captured, but he escaped back to their bandit fellows. After you have dealt with that, I am sure that every household in the valley has some petty dispute with their neighbours that will come out now a judge is present. Begging your pardon, good judge, that’s just how it goes.’

The man was not wrong. People were content to talk through their problems, or just ignore them. But when a judge arrived, suddenly all that resentment would come out. It was the lion’s share of Gijsbert’s job, in villages like this. Still, an outstanding criminal case. And involving a foreigner, too. Something interesting to deal with.

‘Where is the accused now?’ Gijsbert asked.

‘Locked in one of the rooms upstairs,’ Martijn answered.

‘Very good. I shall conduct the trial in here, if you will allow it, and any further cases.’ Gijsbert’s voice gave no indication that he would hear any objection. ‘I will just need some help to set up, and then we can start on the morrow.’

‘Of course, good judge,’ Martijn replied.

‘Good sir?’ One of the other men piped up. Diederik and Henk, Annalieka had identified them as, though Gijsbert had not paid attention to which was which. One was of an age with the rest and the other much younger. It was the older who spoke, the one who must be married to the woman – Femke? – behind him. Gijsbert nodded at him, to avoid having to guess at a name. ‘I would humbly ask if you have news. The last we heard was from a merchant passing through a few weeks back. He said they still haven’t elected a new king and that the Monarchists were threatening to declare one anyway.’

‘Aye,’ said Martijn. ‘That’s when the trouble with the bandits began. I suppose they think everyone is too preoccupied to deal with a smattering of banditry in the arse end of nowhere – begging your pardon, good judge.’

Yes, of course they did not yet know. All their news was at least a month out of date. But Gijsbert had nothing pleasant to tell them.

‘Yes, that is correct,’ he said. ‘The Monarchists gathered in Hovellig and declared a man, the Duke of Niest, king extralegally. The Justiciarists and Zealots named them traitors. I am afraid to say both sides have begun gathering forces loyal to them.’

Everyone around the table was stunned into silence. Behind him, Gijsbert heard a gasp. Annalieka had returned from upstairs just in time to hear the news. It was her who broke the silence, after she had made her way over to her husband, putting a hand on his shoulder.

‘That would mean war, then.’ It was more a statement than a question. Worry lined her determined face.

‘Yes. I see no alternative. Our land is in a state of civil war.’

Aart had also made his way down the stairs, followed by the village boy. The boy left quickly. The whole village would know by the end of the night. Aart spoke up.

‘Your room is prepared, sir.’

He always gave Gijsbert more respect when they were in company.

Gijsbert nodded. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall retire. I do apologise for giving you such ill news to sleep upon. But take comfort in the fact that it will likely be a short affair, unlikely to reach a few small villages in the far east of the Commonwealth.’

He mounted the stairs, led up by Aart. In the common room, no-one was talking. Gijsbert hoped they would remember themselves by the morning.

The room he had been given was modest, though it was more than possible that it was the largest in the building. Aart had the room next to his – smaller by far. The bed was pressed up against the wall to create as much floorspace as possible. A thick rug laid out on the floor caught Gijsbert’s interest. It looked Islander, from the design. Theman, perhaps, or Xhodesii. Trade had flowed more freely since the Gulf Sea War had ended, but it was still notable to see a thing like that in such a provincial backwater.

A fire had been lit in the fireplace. Gijsbert did not mind. He could finally remove his coat and boots, after all. The trunk was at the foot of the bed. He opened it and took out a few books to pile up on the small table in the corner of the room. His clothes he kept inside. It was only a few spare shirts and a pair of baggy trousers, for when the more official breeches he was wearing were not required.

A jug of cool water was sitting on the table he had placed his books upon, with a cup besides it. Gijsbert poured out a little and sipped it as he undressed. He thought on the case. A real trial before the monotony of pretty disputes that would be brought before him. Still, he could get through them quickly. Be on his way within a couple of weeks, likely to the next group of villages to the north, and so on. As long as he could get back to the larger towns before the start of winter, some months off yet. Or maybe it would be better to stay in the country, if fighting began to break out in the towns. it would be better to elongate his stay, if he could, then. Perhaps.

Gijsbert got into the bed, pulling the covers tight around him. Problems for the new day, when he had rid himself of the weariness of travel.