Field of Blood

doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.
    'Of course,' Athelstan said, 'it's the Assizes…!'
    'That's right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.'
    'Who are they?' Athelstan asked.
    'The others don't concern me,' Sir John said briskly, 'but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.'
    Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan's sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.
    'Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.'
    'And is she guilty?'
    'As Satan himself.'
    'So, why are we here, Sir John?'
    The coroner tapped his fleshy nose.
    'Have you ever heard of approving?'
    Athelstan nodded. 'It's a legal term?'
    'Well, that's what the clever lawyers call it! Let me explain: Jack Cranston is put on trial for strangling Pike the ditcher.'
    'That's possible,' Athelstan agreed. 'And, if you did, I'd probably help you.'
    'No, listen. I'm found guilty. Now, I can throw myself on the King's mercy, be hanged by the purse, be exiled beyond the seas, imprisoned for life or, more usually, hanged by the neck. However, if I can successfully accuse, let us say, Watkin the dung-collector, of six other murders, I receive a pardon and old Watkin goes on trial. It's a rather clever and subtle method employed by the Crown's lawyers to resolve a whole series of crimes. Now, Watkin, being a man, could challenge me to a duel to prove his innocence. Or, I could challenge him.'
    '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