He
turned to the prisoner. She was unsteady on her feet, having
exhausted her natural strength in childbirth, Brigge assumed.
He motioned to the constable's man to bring up a little plain matted
chair. The Irishwoman took the opportunity to sit. She
gave no sign of gratitude.
"What is your name?"
the coroner asked.
The Irishwoman said nothing.
The scratch of Adam's pen was the only sound in the hall.
Brigge repeated the question and asked if she understood what was
asked of her. She gave no answer and looked away with an air
of boredom. Brigge put the question again, making his voice
round and frank to convey the power he had over her.
She said at last, "My
name is none of your business."
Her accent was unfamiliar
and outlandish. The jurymen inclined their heads to consult
each other and, as comprehension seeped in, a slow murmur went up.
"I am Mr. John Brigge,"
the coroner said when he had worked through her words. "I
am coroner in these wapenstakes and a governor of this town.
You must answer me. Is your name Katherine Shay?"
"If you say it is,
then it is."
"Never mind what
I say -"
"I do not mind what
you say."
Brigge had come across
defiance before in prisoners, though not often and then usually
only after heads had been fuddled with drink: clear heads apprehended
terror clearly. But as he studied Katherine Shay, the coroner
saw something more than contumacy. He saw she had a perfect
understanding of what was required of her, that she play her part.
It was no more than was required of any prisoner. The thief,
the murderer, the robber - all who go on trial and offer up lie
after blatant lie to save their lives are playing their part.
The magistrate has as much need of their desperate inventions, their
evasions and despairing bluster as he does of the prison, the stocks,
the whip, the pillory, and the gibbet. A lie acknowledges
the law the liar has broker; it is pleasing to the magistrate's
ear. Katherine Shay knew what was required of her and withheld
it. Prideful, brazen, and uncontrite, Scaife had said of her,
and for once, Brigge could not fault the fool.
"Be careful how you
answer me," he said slowly and deliberately. "These
proceedings are to determine the truth of this charge of murder.
If the jurors find that you have murdered your child, an indictment
will be returned against you and you will be kept in safe custody
to await the next assizes. Do you understand me? Your
life depends on what is proved here tonight."
"I know the truth
of the matter and so does our Father in Heaven - that is enough
for me."
"But not enough for
this inquisition," Brigge said sharply, "to which you
owe obedience."
"I owe nothing to
this inquisition or to you," she said with a careless shrug.
Her words echoed in far
corners of the hall as whispering interpreters went to work, repeating
and amplifying her provocations.
Perhaps encouraged by
the repetition of her defiance, she launched into vaporing and ranting,
"I say I owe nothing to any court or any pretended power or
magistrate put over me," she shouted. "I saw I owe
obedience to no one on this earth."
The sessions hall erupted
in outrage. Some jeered, some hawked and spat on the ground.
Brigge shouted at the prisoner to be quiet, but she would not be
shut up. This was defiance as Brigge had not heard it before.
Incendiary notions are not uncommon among the ignorant sort of people,
but they are generally whispered behind the backs of the hand.
Perhaps the woman's mind had been deranged in childbirth.
He signaled to Doliffe who came up and bent to his ear.
"Fetch the bridle
if you please, Mr. Doliffe," the coroner said.
The constable received
his instruction with an expression of earnest approval and went
off with a quick step.
The Irishwoman continued
to rail and taunt while those in the hall jibed and derided her.
Brigge no longer heard what was said. He took the bundle of
dirty cloth and began to open it. As he did so, the Irishwoman
began to falter and her tormentors too began to fall silent. |