Arcadia by Iain Pears
Hardly based on solid evidence, but the trouble was that Gontal didn’t even stick to this line of argument. Rather, he picked out minor details, then referred them to some part of the Story and launched into a lengthy piece of literary criticism. The object seemed to be to find which story was the closest parallel. The more the parallels, the greater the proof. Gontal’s entire speech, in fact, was a complex exercise designed to persuade the audience that the murder of Thenald most closely resembled a story in which a wicked stepmother steals from her husband and blames his son. ‘For what is murder, except the theft of life?’ Gontal intoned gravely to make an entirely specious link between the two.
He finished with a positive broadside of quotations, voice rising melodramatically, right arm extended. Lytten knew where that came from. A performance of Racine in France when he was young, the static, ponderous, overwrought declamation, the mannered pose, the over-abundance of language. Yes, that was it, and it was evidently as big a success here as it had been at the Comédie-Française: the audience was cowed. Gontal had a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he turned with a flourish to Lytten, then to Pamarchon, then to the people watching, silent in admiration for the man’s skill and learning. Gontal felt sure it was in the bag. How could a seventeen-year-old student stand a chance against such overwhelming erudition?
Lytten looked at the slender figure and crooked his finger to summon him.
‘You seem afraid, young man.’
Jay nodded.
‘I believe I made you a little ill-disciplined. Would you agree?’
Jay said nothing.
‘I made you so for a reason. Use my gifts. Do not try to be a second-rate Gontal, but speak as you feel. Remember, your job is to convince me, not anyone else, and I really don’t care for extraneous literary allusion. If I have to sit through another speech as dull as that one, I will conclude that I have created the most boring world that could ever exist, and will erase it and start again. It is your job to redeem this place. Do you understand?’
‘No, Majesty.’
‘Get to the point. Speak of the world and of people and deeds. Not of books and precedents and quotations. Make your learning serve your heart, not the other way around. Be yourself, dear boy. Use what you know.’
Jay bowed and faced the crowd. He took a deep breath and began.
*
‘People of Willdon,’ Jay began conventionally enough, ‘you have heard Scholar Gontal deliver a fine discourse, as it should be delivered. He is a great scholar, intelligent and learned. I am not. I cannot deliver my discourse with the power that he can summon. I will not pronounce in the correct forms, with the proper weightings and with an impeccable structure. I can only speak the truth, simply and directly. I must confine myself to what happened, and to what I know.
‘So let me tell you plainly that he is wrong when he says that Pamarchon is innocent, Catherine guilty. You noted, I am sure, that Scholar Gontal said little to defend Pamarchon. He briefly told you that he was innocent, but his main point was to insist that this was only because Catherine is guilty. That was his entire case. He besmirched the reputation of both.
‘I do not accept his conclusion or his method. I will do the opposite, and defend Catherine by defending Pamarchon also. I ask you to decide that both are innocent.’
He turned round briefly to see what the reaction was so far. Rosalind winked at him supportively; the spirit on the tomb nodded, as if in approval, encouraging him to continue. Jay tried to keep them in mind and not Henary, who he was sure would be horrified by his approach.
‘Let me start by speaking in favour of the man I am supposed to be accusing. Pamarchon, the outlaw, the bandit, the murderer. I have spent several days with him, and seen him with many people. He rules his band with justice and care; he takes pains not to abuse those he lives near. His followers are with him out of love, not fear. He shows no man violence and no woman indignity. Think back to the days before his fall. Did he not intervene to cool the wrath of his uncle? Is that the behaviour of a violent murderer? Was there anything, any deed or statement, which made you think him capable of such a crime? If there is, then speak.’
No one did, fortunately. It was a risk, asking an audience for a reaction and staking all on getting the right one. If Gontal had had more time to prepare his followers, Jay’s entire strategy could have collapsed then and there. Still, his luck held.
‘I see that I have had some success in damaging my own case. For I have strengthened the case against Catherine, and it is not a bad case at all. Did she love her husband? Possibly not, but then nor did anyone else. Did she move quickly to take control of Willdon on his death? Most certainly. Does she have the intelligence to do something like this? Very definitely. She is a woman of great resource, courage and daring. You know this, you who know her better than I do.
‘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 alr
‘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.
‘I call before me Antros, friend of Pamarchon,’ he said loudly. Antros was shocked and came forward with the greatest reluctance.
‘I am under the special protection of Willdon,’ he said defiantly as he approached.
Lytten smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘I would like to ask you a favour, if I may. I imagine that there are some of your merry band of outlaws carefully scattered around in case something goes wrong here, is that the case?’
Antros didn’t reply. ‘Please go and get them prepared,’ he said quietly. ‘Gontal is in a bad mood, and may soon be in a worse one. Can you tell me which of you is the best archer? It would be good to have someone who is calm and self-confident close by.’
‘I am easily the best,’ Antros said. ‘Better by far than even Pamarchon.’
‘Then you are my man. Now, I would like you to be ready for all eventualities. Settle yourself down in the bushes there.’ Lytten nodded towards his left. ‘Out of sight, if you please, but ready with your bow.’
‘To do what?’
‘You will know if you see it. Just do not be afraid, and trust your instincts. Go now.’
Antros bowed and walked swiftly out of the circle. The encounter had disturbed the crowd, which was now restless in a way which Lytten’s experienced ears knew was impatient, annoyed even. Time to take control properly.
‘Silence!’ he roared suddenly, and the noise shook the clearing like thunder.
Lytten stood up and spread out his arms, the red cloak billowing from the movement.
‘People of Anterwold! People of Willdon! Hear my words!’
Silence fell, absolute and total, as he gazed around him.
‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to shout. You,’ he gestured to Catherine and Pamarchon, Henary and Jay and Gontal, ‘come and stand over there. Everyone else come closer. Yes, yes. Into the circle. Step over those stones. They are just stones, nothing more.’
Even so, they were reluctant. But soon enough one person stepped over and, emboldened, so did everyone else, then rushed forward until they were gathered around the stone tomb, looking up in awe at the figure standing on it.
‘Good. I will give you my decisions. They are final, not subject to any query. My words will be obeyed. They are the law, unbreakable and eternal.’ He spoke with magnificence and authority, rather like reading the rules of a final exam to a hall of students, but with much greater impact.
‘Firstly, stop looking at me like a bunch of sheep. You believe that I called the Story into being. So I did. It was to help you, not hinder you. To open your minds, not close them. I wish you to question, not obey. Doubt, not trust. That is the purpose of the Story, but you have missed the lesson, if Gontal is anything to go by.
‘It contains your past, I say. It does not contain your future. I have not written that. No one has, and from now on you will be the only people who can write it. Do not rely on words written by the long dead, as Gontal did in his speech. Erudition is no substitute for wisdom. Take what is good and useful in the Story, but do not treat it as a book of rules. Change it as you wish. You have the Story, but you also have your intelligence and humanity. Use all the gifts you have been given.
‘Now, Jay, student of Henary, step forward. Pamarchon, son of Isenwar. Oh – and Aliena, student of Rambert. Let’s have you as well.’
That caused another stir; no one could understand why they had been called, but Jay stepped forward and, after a moment, Aliena also emerged from the crowd, looking alarmed, and took her place beside him.
‘Might as well take care of the star-crossed
Pamarchon bowed.
‘Right. That’s you sorted. Now, Aliena. I am pleased to see that you are as pretty as I hoped, or would be if you didn’t look such a grouch. Stop hitting Rambert, girl. He has been good to you. He is proud of you and loves you. You are his greatest achievement and he knows you will far surpass him. He accepts that, and it is no small thing in a proud man. You owe him gratitude, and the best way to repay him is to sing with a beauty that no one has ever heard before. He will accept it, if you stop using your skill to hurt him. Ask Rosalind about Ella Fitzgerald. You should worship her, not me.