Read by Silas Hawkins
When, on St. Crispin’s Day 1416, in the fourth year of the reign of Henry V and the first anniversary of the battle of Agincourt, Goodwife Mary was brought before the assizes in Guildford, her sex presented the court with something of a conundrum.
In English common law, maiming was the malicious rendering of the victim “less able to annoy his adversary”. Typically, this might involve dismemberment or the gouging of the eyes. Mayhem, as it was then called, was a serious felony. In those days when Exodus, Leviticus and Deuteronomy were respected legal authority, the sentence called for the loss of the like part, membrum pro membro, as the learned justices would have it.
The particular act that she had allegedly committed on her husband was the removal, by means of his own eating knife, of his privy member. Should she be found liable for this egregious act, it was difficult to see how she could be made to forfeit what she did not have.
“That, members of the jury, is a river we shall have to cross should we reach it,” said Justice Sir Edward de Vere, “Meanwhile, your responsibility as jurors is to investigate by interrogating those witnesses you think fit.”
The jurors, twelve goodmen of the hundred, sat in silence. They all knew Goodman John Cutler of Clapham; prior knowledge was, in those days, a most desirable quality in a juror. That John Cooper and John Taylor had both faced Cutler over matters of business in the civil courts, was not considered a barrier to justice. On the other hand, the obligation to attend the quarterly assize in Guildford and to pay for bed and board while there was an onerous one. No one doubted that the trial would be a quick one and that Mary Cutler would soon learn her fate.
De Vere asked the jurors to decide amongst themselves whom they would call for interrogation. After five minutes the answer came back; John and Mary Cutler, in that order. Since John was in the antechamber of the court and Mary was under guard in Guildford castle up on the hill, the proceedings were brought to order.
The hunched figure of Goodman Cutler appeared at the door of the court and de Vere, taking pity on him, invited him, contrary to established practice, to give both oath and testimony from a sedentary position. Cutler winced at the very thought of his own physical discomfort, shuffled across the well of the court, sat slowly down, and winced again as he did so. In an age when few people had the means to be fragrant, Cutler was particularly ripe.
Goodman Roger Little rose to speak on behalf of the jury.
Aha, thought De Vere, the quiet one, desperate for his day in court. He found himself leaning forward, the better to hear Roger Little. The question was a disappointment. The first question usually was.
“Goodman Cutler, can you tell us in your own words what happened to you on the morning of 15th of the instant month?” So obviously an attempt to ask the sort of question jurymen were supposed to ask. As Roger took his seat, his face radiating smugness, De Vere knew that he would have to intervene several times to keep this case on track. “In your own words”? Why did they think it was necessary to say that?
Cutler was already speaking, and looking, as he did so, from juror to juror:
“I woke up in pain. I was in our bed and my goodwife was standing over me. “Lie still,” she said, “You have a wound.” I looked down and I saw wadding and bandaging around my thighs and privy area, stained dark with blood. Much afraid, I asked her what had befallen me. I remembered nothing. I began to shake.”
Roger was on his feet: “Were you drinking the night before?”
“My wife, sir, is a brewster. There is always beer. Good beer, too, good enough to sell to the Taverners down at The Bull. I take it down there myself. She is oftentimes angry with me for drinking so much of it, says I lay violent hands on her, but I say she is a liar. So yes, sir, I was drinking the night before, and I say what of it? It is my goodwife, not I, who is on trial.”
Roger’s face fell. De Vere came to his rescue: “Goodman Cutler, you have denounced your wife for mayhem. The jury has a duty to investigate your claim. You will not question them; they will question you. Is that understood?”
Cutler nodded and Little, emboldened, pursued his line of enquiry, a little faster this time: “You have stated that you remember nothing. I put it to you that you have no standing, therefore, in a charge against your goodwife. Perhaps someone else committed the mayhem? Indeed it is not unheard of that a man commit mayhem on himself. Is that not so, Mr De Vere?”
De Vere nodded: “Goodman Little, I think perhaps you refer to the case of William of Chiswick last year, and his attempt to avoid service in France by cutting off his fore and middle fingers so that he could not draw his bow. We struck the same two fingers from his left hand, a condign punishment. But, Goodman Little, am I to understand that it is the jury’s case that Goodman Cutler has committed mayhem upon himself in order to avoid, what, the service he owes to his goodwife?”
De Vere turned his attention to the plaintiff: “Goodman Cutler, you have conjured up a vision of yourself lying abed, bloody bandages covering your private parts, your wife standing above you apparently ministering to you. You asked her to tell you what had happened since you did not know. Now, please tell us what followed.”
“I said, ‘Goodwife, what the fuck have you done?’ and I saw my eating knife in her hand. She said, ‘Look well, husband,’ and moved to the table by the bed. Thereon was a cloth package, wrapped in butchers’ twine. She cut the twine with my knife and opened the package in front of my eyes. “Your privy member!” she said, and I felt suddenly sick, overwhelmed by the enormity of my loss, what my own goodwife had done. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. I could not look at the evidence of my own unmanning. Then she called the dog. My dog! Dog comes in. She puts cloth on floor and dog goes there, picks it up, out the door. That’s the last I see of it.”
“Thank you, Goodman Cutler. You may remain seated in the witness box. I think we must hear from your goodwife. Bailiff, bring her in. Goodman Little, the court has identified the woman who is being taken into the dock as Goodwife Mary Cutler, brewster, of Clapham. You will recognise her as such. So please proceed directly to discovery.” There was a palpable murmur of appreciation from the jury at De Vere’s oiling of the wheels of justice.
Roger took this to heart and formulated his questions carefully: “Goodwife Cutler, we are here to find out the truth of what happened on St Crispin’s Day at your home in Clapham. Why did you cut off your husband’s member and feed it to his dog? Was it because he beat you?”
Better, thought de Vere, a leading question might actually get an answer.
“He beat me, yes, most days. He is a pig of a man, sir. But I did not cut off his cock. That night he came in roaring that he was going to give me a kicking but he collapsed onto the bed, I gave him a great kick in the bollocks and he didn’t move at all so I kicked him again. And, again nothing, and then I fell to thinking. I would teach him a lesson. I took his eating knife from his belt – I do not have one of my own sir, even though my husband is a cutler – and I pricked him about his prick and the sack that hangs below, then I packed it up tightly with bandages and gave him a few more kicks there, just to get the blood a-flowing and give him the sense of having nothing down there but pain, sir. I had a nice shiny piece of pig’s gut from Goodman Butcher; it was a little blueish thing about the right size and shape, and I wrapped that up and let it sit by the bed while he slept. You know the rest. He only looked it for a second and the pain and the bandages convinced him that it was his cock in the cloth, and then in the dog.”
Conversations broke out around the court, including among the jurymen and de Vere had to call for silence. “Bailiffs,” he cried, “Take this goodman and make him stand. Goodman Cutler, am I to believe that you have not removed your bandages in the past four days? Have not been curious, have not visited at the very least a nurse or a surgeon? Have not visited the privy?”
“No sir, I was ashamed to show myself to anyone, afraid I might bleed to death if I removed the bandages. I have become used to letting the waters soak through, sir. The other passage is without impediment sir. My bandages are yet unbeshitten.”
“Bailiffs, hold him and remove his hose. Little, you must now investigate like a good juryman. Take this goodman’s eating knife and cut away those blood-sodden bandages. Yes, sir, do it now sir!”
Little performed his task, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold his breath throughout. With all of his will, he resisted the urge to gag as he raised, between thumb and forefinger, the fold of the bandage that covered the private parts of Goodman Cutler.
*
In Clapham the following week, at the sign of The Bull, an alehouse owned by Goodman Ralph Taverner, who regularly bought Goodwife Cutler’s ale, the drinks were free and a skilful eavesdropper might have spent a profitable hour.
“The stink,” said John Cooper, as he lifted his drink from a barrel of his own making, “the smell was like nothing else. It poisoned the air of the court.”
“The sight of it, besides,” said Roger Little, “all shrunken and wizened. A sorrier thing I never saw! ‘Twill never stand proud again. By the Lord Jesus, I feel almost sorry for him.”
“More ale, Roger?” asked Goodwife Cutler, and Little acquiesced as Mary poured ale out of a stone jug.
“I hear you have moved in here, Goodwife Cutler, that you now live under the sign of The Bull. But does not Goodman Taverner have a wife?”
“He did,“ came the reply, “but she is here no longer. It appears she was serving more than just good ale to my husband.”
“Where is she now?” asked Roger, the practised but now somewhat inebriated juryman.
“Oh, she left. She knew what Ralph would do if he found out. And he found out. I do not think you will see her again.”
That night as she lay in bed, Mary Cutler felt free for the first time. She smiled and fell into a deep sleep as she held Goodman Ralph Taverner tightly in her arms.
(c) Ken Towl, 2021
Ken Towl attended City, University of London's short story course in 2019 and is a regular contributor to Inside Croydon, leavening its award-winning reportage of local government goings-on with whimsical articles on walks, art, pubs and pandemics. He teaches Law, Politics and History.
Silas Hawkins continues the family voiceover tradition (he is the son of Peter 'Dalek' Hawkins & Rosemary 'Emergency Ward 10' Miller). Favourite voice credits: Summerton Mill, Latin Music USA & podcasts for The Register.
Website: www.silashawkins.com Agents: [email protected]
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