by Paul Doherty
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, cleans-haven, 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.’
‘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.’
The lawyer realised what he had said and raised his hand to his mouth to hide his consternation as giggling broke out among both the jury and spectators.
Sir Henry leaned forward, gesturing with his hand for silence.
‘Would you like to re-phrase that, sir?’ he snarled.
‘I, I . . . meant as drunk as a lord, er, my lord!’
Guffaws of laughter broke out in the court. Sir Henry banged the heel of his boot against the floor. Tipstaffs, waving white wands, moved threateningly towards both spectators and jury.
‘We have heard the evidence,’ Sir Henry bawled. ‘Members of the jury, look upon the prisoners. Do you find them guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty, my lord.’
‘On all three counts?’
‘All of them, my lord, on all three counts. But, my lord . . .’
‘Yes!’
‘We recommend mercy for the youngest.’
‘I’ll show him mercy. Tipstaffs, bailiffs, take the prisoner named,’ he pointed to the youngest, ‘away from the bar. He is to be exiled from this kingdom within a week. He is not to return for seven years on pain of forefeiture of life and limb!’
The fortunate prisoner was unmanacled and pushed to one side of the court. The young lawyer was profuse in his thanks; hands clasped, he kept bowing in Brabazon’s direction. Everyone found the proceedings amusing but, when one of the clerks brought out a black silk cloth for the judge to place over his skullcap, a deathly hush fell on the court. Athelstan repressed a shiver.
‘Thomas Shawditch, Richard Hadfield, you have been found guilty of the most heinous crime of the murder of three men at the Malkin tavern in the Poultry. Do you have anything to say before sentence of death is passed?’
One of the prisoners extended his hand and made an obscene gesture in the direction of the judges.
‘Thomas Shawditch, Richard Hadfield,’ Sir Henry continued undeterred. ‘It is the sentence of this court that you be taken back to your cells and, on a day fixed by this court, no later than the feast of St Edward the Confessor, you are to be taken to the common scaffold at Smithfield and hanged by your neck until dead! May the Lord have mercy on your souls! Bailiffs, take them down!’
The prisoners shouted obscenities and curses but the bailiffs secured them, assisted by a few royal archers, and they were bundled out of the hall. Sir Henry now removed the black silk cloth and scowled at both jury and spectators.
‘I hope my court,’ he bellowed, ‘will not be disturbed by further mockery and merriment. Bailiff, bring in the next prisoner!’
Alice Brokestreet’s name was called. There was a slight delay before Athelstan glimpsed a shadowy figure come through the door escorted by two archers. She was brought to the bar of the court and manacled there by her wrists. She was dressed in a shabby grey gown, hair pulled back and tied by clasps in a tight knot. Athelstan’s heart sank. He accepted the proverb ‘Never judge a book by its cover’ but Alice Brokestreet aptly summarised Sir John’s whisper of ‘trouble in petticoats’. She was sour-faced with high cheekbones, bold-eyed, her lower lip aggressively jutting out. She certainly seemed to nurse a secret and had no terror of the court or the charges levelled against her.
‘Read out the indictment!’ Sir Henry bellowed. ‘And make it quick!’
The clerk jumped up as nimble as a grasshopper and fairly gabbled out the indictment, that Alice Brokestreet had killed Nicholas Tayilour in the Merry Pig tavern within the octave of the Feast of the Assumption.
‘How do you plead?’ the clerk asked Alice.
‘I wish to go on oath,’ came the tart reply.
A book of the gospels was brought, the oath hastily administered.
‘Well?’ Sir Henry leaned forward.
‘My lord.’ Brokestreet closed her eyes as if reciting lines. ‘I wish to plead for mercy from God, the King and my peers.’
‘On what count?’
Athelstan could see Sir Henry was deeply interested in the un
usual turn of the proceedings.
‘I plead guilty,’ Alice said. ‘But I killed in self-defence. I wish to approve.’
‘Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes, my lord. I have committed a terrible crime but I know of another who has done worse.’
‘Continue. But be specific.’
‘I accuse,’ Brokestreet’s voice rose, ‘Kathryn Vestler, owner of the Paradise Tree, of the horrible murders of Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster.’
Athelstan turned quickly. Mistress Vestler was sitting upright in shock.
‘When did these murders occur?’
‘Over two months ago, my lord.’
‘And how do you know?’
‘I helped bury their cadavers beneath an oak tree in Black Meadow which runs behind the tavern down to the Thames.’
‘And how did these murders occur?’
‘Margot was a chambermaid at the tavern. Bartholomew was a clerk of the records in the Tower. He was attracted to her and often visited the tavern. Mistress Vestler became jealous of their friendship. One night they stayed late, well after the chimes of midnight. I was roused from my sleep by Mistress Vestler.’ She paused as her former employer began to weep noisily.
Sir Henry’s head turned like a guard dog ready to attack.
‘Silence in court!’ he thundered.
Master Hengan put his hand on Mistress Vestler’s shoulder.
‘Hush,’ he whispered. ‘This is nothing but trickery!’
‘Continue.’
‘I was brought down to the taproom. Bartholomew . . .’ Brokestreet’s voice faded. ‘And Margot were both slumped over the table. Mistress Vestler had administered a deadly potion.’
‘No! No! No!’ The accused woman jumped to her feet, eyes staring. She shook her hands. ‘These are lies! This is not true!’
Sir Henry caught Sir John’s eye and smiled thinly. His gaze shifted.
‘Master Hengan, it is you, is it not?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And this Mistress Vestler? Well, remove her from the court and compose her. But not too far: we may soon want words with her.’
Hengan, assisted by Sir John, helped the shaken, moaning woman to her feet, out of the makeshift gallery and down into the well of the court. Sir John returned to sit beside Athelstan.
‘I am glad you are here. We may have need of your expertise,’ Sir Henry cooed, as his pebble-black eyes moved to Athelstan. ‘And your good secretarius. I saw you come, Sir Jack.’
Sir John leaned over to hide behind the man in front while he took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin.
‘If I wasn’t so busy, Sir Jack,’ Sir Henry called out without even glancing across, ‘I’d ask for a drink from that myself!’
Before any eyebrows could be raised or questions asked, he gestured at Brokestreet to continue.
‘The tavern was silent. The night was a black one, no moon, no stars.’
‘Which month, Mistress Brokestreet?’
‘I believe June, my lord: sudden storms had swept in.’
‘You have a good memory?’
‘My lord, Mistress Vestler said the rain would make the ground softer.’
‘Proceed!’
‘We brought a handcart into the taproom and placed the two corpses on. We took them out around the side of the tavern, through the herb gardens and into Black Meadow.’
‘If it was so dark,’ Sir Henry interrupted, ‘how could you see?’
‘Mistress Vestler lit lantern horns: two if I remember correctly. One she placed at the entrance to the meadow, the other at the foot of the great oak tree.’
‘And the corpses?’
‘We wheeled them out together. Mistress Vestler had a mattock and hoe. We dug a shallow pit and threw the corpses in. My lord, I was afeared. Mistress Vestler is a cunning woman and she threatened me. I later left her service and she gave me good silver to keep my mouth closed.’
‘Heavens above!’ Sir John whispered. ‘I remember Bartholomew Menster. He was quite a senior clerk in the Tower. People wondered what had happened to him.’
Brabazon lifted the sprig of rosemary to his nose, sniffing at it carefully, eyes intent on Brokestreet. Sir John might be right, Athelstan reflected: the chief justice had a heart of flint but he was no man’s fool. He had not taken a liking to the prisoner at the bar.
‘You do realise what you are saying?’ Sir Henry asked, lowering the sprig of rosemary.
‘It is a very grave matter,’ one of the other justices now asserted, ‘to go on oath and accuse another citizen of hideous murder.’
‘I will go even further,’ Brokestreet answered defiantly. ‘The Paradise Tree is a busy place. People coming and going as they pleased. For all I know, my lord, there may be other corpses in that field.’
‘A true Haceldama,’ Sir Henry said, quoting from the scriptures. ‘A Potter’s Field, a Field of Blood. Well, Mistress Brokestreet, you have thrown yourself upon the mercy of the court but, of course, you are not released. You will be taken back to Newgate, though lodged in more comfortable surroundings in the gatehouse. The court will pay good monies for your sustenance and upkeep while these matters are investigated. Do you have anything to add, mistress?’
The prisoner shook her head, a smile of triumph on her face.
‘If you are wrong,’ the chief justice continued, ‘you shall certainly hang! Sir John Cranston, would you please come before the court?’
Sir John gave a great sigh, handed his wineskin to Athelstan then stopped abruptly. The friar followed his gaze, which was fixed on a royal messenger on the other side of the court. The man had just entered, his boots splattered with mud. He carried a small leather bag containing missives, documents for the court.
‘Satan’s tits!’ Sir John breathed.
‘What is it, Sir John? What’s the matter?’
‘I know your man, one of the victims.’
‘Sir John Cranston!’ the tipstaff called. ‘The court awaits!’
Sir John pushed by and went down to stand, feet apart, before the bar.
‘Sir Jack, it is good to see you. You are the King’s coroner in the city of London? It is the wish of this court that you take Mistress Kathryn Vestler and place her under house arrest. If she attempts to flee, she is liable to forfeiture of life, limb and property. You are then to proceed to this field known as Black Meadow which lies behind Mistress Vestler’s tavern. You are to take bailiffs and beadles from the city and discover the truth behind the prisoner’s allegations.’
‘And if they are lies, as I am sure they are, I will come back and assist in her hanging!’
‘And if they are not,’ Sir Henry bellowed, ‘you are to arrest Kathryn Vestler and bring her before this court!’
Chapter 3
Sir John Cranston sipped from the blackjack of ale and stared up at the side of pork, wrapped in a linen bag, hanging from one of the rafters to be cured. He smacked his lips and gazed appreciatively round the taproom of the Paradise Tree. The sun was still strong, turning the late afternoon a mellow golden colour, with only a tinge of early autumn. The taproom was fairly empty. Athelstan walked towards a window seat from where he gazed across the lush herb garden at the red-painted wicket gate.
‘That must lead to Black Meadow,’ he observed.
‘It certainly does.’ Sir John joined him. ‘And, if you go through the meadow, it will take you down to the Thames.’
He took the friar through the door and into the gardens. To the far right were some apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit. Above these soared the great turrets of the Tower.
‘Old Vestler was a canny soldier,’ Sir John said. ‘He fought in France and secured many ransoms. He came back after the Treaty of Bretigny, sold everything he had and bought this tavern. Even in lean times the Paradise Tree always prospered.’
Athelstan sniffed the air; he caught a tang of wood smoke and burning meat. That’s not from the kitchens, he thought, I wonder where?
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br /> ‘Brother, look at this!’
Athelstan went over to where Sir John stood staring down at a gleaming sundial. The face, of burnished bronze with Roman lettering, was fixed into a thick stone cupola which rested on a squat column of ancient stone about a yard and a half high.
‘A curiosity,’ Athelstan said, noticing how the arm of the sundial rested between two numbers. ‘I wonder how accurately it measures the passing of the sun?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sir John growled. ‘You’re the student of the heavens!’
‘Was Stephen Vestler?’
‘No, he just loved collecting curiosities.’
‘Ah yes, I noticed the old weapons fastened to the tavern walls.’
‘Stephen bought them from the Tower garrison, a reminder of his warlike days.’
Athelstan walked back through the taproom, along a stone-paved corridor. The walls, clean and lime-washed to repel flies, were decorated with old maces, halberds and shields. A snowy white cat crouched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the rooms above. Athelstan grasped the newel post carved in the shape of the tree of forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. He tried not to rouse the cat as he listened to the sounds of weeping. Hengan had taken Mistress Vestler up to her chamber. The poor widow woman was distraught, beside herself with fear and anger.
‘God save and protect them!’ Athelstan said to himself. ‘But the serpent has entered paradise and our golden day is about to turn to night!’
He heard sounds further up the path: the gate being opened, the crunch of boots on gravel. Henry Flaxwith, red-faced, lips pursed in self-importance, strode into the tavern. Chief bailiff to Sir John Cranston, Flaxwith carried a cudgel in one hand and the lead to his dog Samson in the other. Athelstan, out of charity, always smiled at the dog. Privately, he’d never seen such an ugly animal, which was a squat bull mastiff with a wicked face, gleaming eyes, slavering jaws and indescribable personal habits.
‘Good morrow, Brother.’
Flaxwith moved his cudgel to the other hand and grasped Athelstan’s. Samson immediately cocked his leg against the door post. The white cat rose, back arched, tail up, hissing and spitting. Samson growled and the cat promptly fled up the stairs.