Field of Blood

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.'
    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…'
    '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 unusual turn of the