Paul Harding: Field of Blood

'Trial by combat?'

'That's right, my little monk.'

'Friar, Sir John, and what would happen if Watkin lost?'

'Oh, he'd hang.'

'And what would happen if you didn't accept the challenge?'

'Well, Watkin would go on trial. If found guilty, he'd hang and I'd go free.'

'And you think this will happen today with Alice Brokestreet? She will approve someone?'

'Just a rumour. As you know, Athelstan, I often speak to the bailiffs and gaolers of Newgate. Alice Brokestreet is as guilty as Herodias. You know, the one who killed St Peter?'

'No, Sir John, she killed John the Baptist.'

'Same thing! Anyway, Alice was once in the employ of Kathryn Vestler, a truly good woman, Brother. She has no children, she's a widow. Her husband, Stephen Vestler, was a squire at Poitiers. I've told you, haven't I, how we fought like swooping falcons?'

'Yes, yes, Sir John, you have.'

'Now Vestler is the owner of the Paradise Tree, a spacious hostelry in Petty Wales. You can see the Tower from its chambers. It has a lovely garden and a meadow at the back which stretches down to the river.'

'But surely, Sir John, you are not implying that this Brokestreet is going to accuse our good widow woman, an upright member of the parish, of being some secret, red-handed assassin?'

'I don't know, Brother. All I've been told, mere whispers and gossip, is that Alice Brokestreet exudes an arrogant confidence. She claims to have secrets to tell the justices: true, she may have done wrong, and this is where we come to the cutting edge; she says that she's not the only woman in London to have committed murder.'

'Oh come, Sir Jack.' Athelstan felt exasperated at being dragged away. 'Is that all?'

'No, it is not, Brother. Brokestreet is hinting that others she has worked for are guilty of more heinous crimes.'

'And where is Mistress Vestler now?' Sir John sighed and got to his feet. 'In we go, Brother.'

They entered the Guildhall proper, down a spa­cious gallery. Its paving stones were covered in fresh straw, sprinkled with herbs. Soldiers stood on guard but Sir John, his seal wrapped round his hand, was allowed through. They went up a small flight of stairs and into a whitewashed vestibule. The doors at the far end were flung open and Athelstan glimpsed the court. At the far end of the hall, on a wooden dais draped in blood-red cloth, ranged the justices dressed in ermine-edged scarlet robes, black skullcaps on their heads. They sat on five throne­like chairs. Further down clerks sat grouped around a long table covered in a green baize cloth littered with rolls of parchment, inkpots and quills. To the judges' right was the jury: twelve men drawn from the different wards of London and, to their left, in wooden stands, sat onlookers, visitors and friends. At the bottom of the dais a great wooden bar stretched across the hall from one end to the other. Chained to this were different malefactors guarded by tipstaffs, bailiffs and archers. The room was hushed, the clerks apparently taking down some­thing which had been said. Athelstan stood in the doorway fascinated by this process of justice.

'Brother, this is Kathryn Vestler.'

The friar turned. One glimpse of the widow wom­an's face and he felt a deep sense of unease. She was comely enough, her silver-grey hair hidden beneath a nun-like veil of dark green. A dress of the same colour was gathered by a white collar round her podgy neck. She possessed kindly grey eyes, a snub nose, a wide, generous mouth, but it was the almost tangible look of fear which caught his attention. He took her hand, soft, small and icy-cold.

'It was good of you to come, Brother and you, Sir Jack.' Kathryn Vestler dabbed at her eyes with a delicate kerchief sewn on to the cuff of her dress. 'I am so afeared! Alice Brokestreet had a nasty tongue and an evil mind.'

'She was in your employ?'

The woman closed her eyes. 'I do her an injustice, Brother. She was a good worker but she had her moods.'

Athelstan glanced behind her as a man came out of the shadows. He was tall, grey-haired, a white silken band around his throat. The shirt was of the whitest lawn while the dark-green leggings, tucked into soft polished boots, were of the purest wool. A fur-trimmed robe, slashed with red silk, hung round his shoulders. Athelstan recognised a lawyer from the Inns of Court. He was lean-faced, narrow-eyed, sallow-skinned with bloodless lips. A man who knows his rights, Athelstan reflected, a skilled adver­sary. He stood threading a silver chain through his fingers. Mistress Vestler caught Athelstan's gaze.

'Oh, this is Ralph Hengan, a lawyer and friend. He looks after my affairs.'

Apparently Sir John knew Hengan. He shook his hand and introduced Athelstan. The lawyer's severe face broke into a beaming smile. He firmly grasped Athelstan's hand.

'I apologise for being a lawyer, Brother. In the gospels we do not have the best reputation!'

'Well, it doesn't even mention monks and friars!' Sir John boomed then realised where he was and put his hand to his mouth. Hengan hitched the robe more firmly round his shoulders, a quick, delicate movement. He glanced into the courtroom.

'Mistress Vestler has fears,' he whispered. 'Perhaps we are wasting your time, Sir Jack, but I think we should go in. This case is drawing to a close. We can discuss matters afterwards. I am sure it's nothing but idle threats! We will soon be back in Mistress Vestler's tavern to broach its best cask of malmsey.'

Hengan had a word with the tipstaff at the door and, putting his finger to his lips as a warning to walk quietly, they went along the hallway, up some wooden steps and on to the hard, narrow benches. Athelstan quickly surveyed his surroundings. Above the justices a broad canopy displayed the arms of England; a great sheet at the back showed a mailed gauntlet clenching the sword of justice. At the tip of the sword rested a silver crown with the golden leopards of England on either side.

The five justices looked solemn: old men, they lounged in their chairs listening to the clerk read back some of the testimony given. The one in the centre was different. Athelstan guessed this was Sir Henry Brabazon, a large, florid-faced man, clean­shaven, his cheeks glistening with oil. Deep-set eyes were almost hidden by rolls of fat. He sat like a hunting dog, now and again lifting a sprig of rose­mary to sniff noisily as if he found the odour from the prisoners offensive. The accused, chained to the bar, looked most unfortunate. They were dressed in rags, their hair and beards dirty and matted. The clerk finished his testimony.

'That is all, my lord.' He bowed low as if he were before a tabernacle.

Sir Henry consulted his colleagues on either side.

'Members of the jury.' Brabazon raised his head, his voice rich and sonorous. 'Do you need to retire to consider the evidence?'

The leader of the jury jumped up so quickly, in any other circumstances Athelstan would have found it amusing.

'Er, no, my lord.'

'Good heavens,' Athelstan whispered. 'Brabazon is not going to waste much time with these.'

'Good!' Sir Henry's face broke into a smile. 'And what is your verdict?'

The leader of the jury took this as a sign to consult his fellows. There was a great deal of muttering and whispering. The three prisoners chained to the bar looked despondent. Sir Henry sat tapping his foot.

'Well?' he barked.

Up stood the weasel-faced leader of the jury.

'My lord, we have a verdict.'

'On all three counts of murder?'

'On all three counts of murder, my lord.'

A young attorney standing at the bar with the prisoners raised his hand. 'Yes, what is it, man?'

'My lord, one of the prisoners,' the lawyer tapped a young man, no more than sixteen summers, 'he was drunk as a judge when the crimes were executed.'