Paul Doherty: Field of Blood

Hengan didn't bother to rise from his stool.

'Master Biddlecombe, how did you know it was Mistress Vestler?'

'She held a lantern horn.'

'Thank you.' Hengan rubbed his face in his hands, a despairing gesture.

Whittock, however, had not finished. A tree-feller was called; he took the oath glibly and loudly proclaimed that, on the morning of the 27th of June, Mistress Vestler had hired him to go out and lop the branches on the oak tree in Black Meadow.

'That was early, wasn't it?' Whittock asked.

'Yes, sir. Pruning of trees is not usually done till autumn and, to be honest, I really couldn't see why she wanted to cut such a great tree. I mean, it stands by itself in Black Meadow.'

'What's the relevance of this?' Hengan rose, his face suffused with anger.

Sir Henry chose to overlook his discourtesy.

'Master Whittock?' he asked.

'Why, my lord, the relevance is quite clear. The corpses of the two victims were found beneath the oak tree. If you have a labourer moving around cutting branches, the grass and soil are disturbed, branches and twigs fall down.'

'In other words,' Sir Henry observed, 'Mistress Vestler didn't want the oak tree pruned but rather the ground which covered the graves to be disguised.'

Whittock bowed. 'My lord, you are, as ever, most perceptive.'

Whittock's last witness caused a stir. Athelstan didn't recognise the name, Walter Trumpington, until First Gospel came striding out of the chamber and across to take the oath. He had the sense not to play his games here, but took the oath, gave his name and claimed he belonged to an order called the Four Gospels who had the use of a small plot of land in Black Meadow.

'You recall the morning of the twenty-sixth of June last?' Whittock demanded.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Mistress Vestler came down to see us. She asked if, the previous day, we had seen anyone we knew in Black Meadow.'

'And had you?'

'No, sir, we had not.'

'Did Mistress Vestler often make such a request of you?'

First Gospel, careful not to look at Mistress Vestler, shook his head.

'She was good and kind to us but I thought it was strange at the time.'

Hengan rose to question but First Gospel would not be shaken: he and his community remembered the incident quite clearly.

Brabazon then called Kathryn Vestler to the stand.

Hengan made careful play of her pious works, her good reputation and character but he could elicit nothing to shake the testimony of so many witnesses. Whittock closed like a weasel would on a rabbit, biting and tearing. Once again Mistress Vestler refused to discuss Gundulf's treasure or the allegation of smuggling. She confessed to burning Margot Haden's clothing and property. She admitted to hiring the woodcutter and, when confronted with the chapman's testimony, did not even bother to make an excuse.

'What I do on my own property and when I do it,' she declared defiantly, 'is my own concern!'

Nor did she deny approaching First Gospel and asking the question.

Athelstan didn't really listen to the interrogation. He studied Mistress Vestler closely. She stood resolute and pale-faced, drained of all bonhomie. Athelstan recognised that logic, every item of evidence, spoke against her yet there was something dreadfully wrong. He sensed she was lying, but why?

The clerks gathered to ask Chief Justice Brabazon whether there would be a recess but he waved his sprig of rosemary: he had scented blood, the hunt would continue until the quarry was brought down. Whittock summarised the evidence. Hengan followed with an impassioned and eloquent plea on behalf of his client but his desperation was apparent. At one time he even hinted that, if Mistress Vestler produced Gundulf's treasure, the Crown might consider a pardon for all past offences. Sir Henry chose to ignore this. He conferred with his fellow justices then gave a pithy but damning summation of the case against Mistress Vestler. An hour candle was lit. The jury withdrew but the candle was scarcely burning before the foreman came back and announced that they had reached their verdict. The jury filed back into their pews. The clerk reread the indictment and tolled a hand bell.

'Members of the jury!' he intoned. 'Look upon the prisoner. Do you find her guilty or not guilty as charged?'

'Guilty with no recommendation for mercy!' came the foreman's stark reply.

Kathryn Vestler swayed a little. Hengan hid his face in his hands. Sir John was wiping at his eyes but Athelstan, hands clasped, watched the piece of black silk being placed over Chief Justice Brabazon's skullcap.

'Kathryn Vestler,' he began. 'You have been found guilty of the hideous crime alleged against you. A jury of your peers has decided that you, maliciously and heinously, murdered Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden. You claim you are a woman of good repute. The court does not believe this. We know of no reason why you should not suffer the full rigours of the law.' He paused. 'Kathryn Vestler, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came and confined in chains. On Monday next, at the hour before noon, you shall be taken to the lawful place of execution at Smithfield and hanged by your neck until dead, your corpse interred in the common grave. May the Lord,' Sir Henry concluded, 'have mercy on your soul! Bailiffs, take her down! Members of the jury, you are thanked and discharged!'

Kathryn Vestler was immediately hustled away. Athelstan heard the cat-calls and cries from outside as she was led to the execution cart. Sir Henry and all the retinue of the court formally processed out. Sir John sat, legs apart, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor.

'I am sorry, Stephen,' he muttered as if his dead friend could hear him. 'I am sorry but I could do no more.'

Hengan still sat on the lawyer's stool, pale-faced and sweating.

'Come on man!' Sir John called over. 'This is no time and place for tears!'

They left the Guildhall by a side entrance. A quack doctor came running up, offering a sure remedy for rotting of the gums.

'It's a distillation of sage water.'

But he saw the look on the coroner's face and, grasping his tray, scuttled away.

Sir John marched up Cheapside, Athelstan walking beside Hengan. Now and again he glanced sideways; the lawyer looked truly stricken, lips moving wordlessly, dabbing at his sweaty face with a rag. He seemed unaware of the crowds, of the gentlemen and their ladies, the apprentices screaming for custom, the criers shouting for every household to keep a vat of water near the doorway in case of fire.

Sir John, also, was in no mood for distractions. Leif the beggarman came hopping over but Sir John raised a clenched fist and the beggarman hobbled away as if he, too, knew this was not the time for his importunate pleas.

Once inside the Holy Lamb of God Sir John sat down on the window seat and crossly demanded a meat pie and three blackjacks of ale. Athelstan found his throat and mouth dry. He could not believe what had happened. He leaned over and grasped Hengan's hand, which was cold as ice.

'You did your best, Master Ralph.'

'I wish I could do more,' the lawyer grated. 'I tell you this, Brother, I am Mistress Vestler's executor. Once I have refreshed myself, I am going to the Paradise Tree to search it from top to bottom. I'll find Gundulf's gold for you, Sir Jack, for old friendship's sake.'

'If you find it,' Sir John replied, lowering the blackjack, 'I'll seek an immediate audience with my Lord of Gaunt. I'll do that anyway. A stay of execution, a pardon? Who knows, they may even agree to Kathryn being hanged by the purse and leave it at that.'

'But you don't think so, do you?' Athelstan asked. Sir John shook his head. 'The murder was malice aforethought. Mistress Vestler refused to plead guilty, while Bartholomew was a royal clerk. The Crown will not listen to pleas of mitigation.'