The Field of Blood (23 page)

‘Where were you, Master Ralph?’

‘Well, the Feast of St John the Baptist is a holy day. The day before, the twenty-fourth, I went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, the regular pilgrimage by the Inns of Court.’ He shrugged. ‘I stayed at the Chequer Board tavern. I even had the pleasure of meeting Master Whittock there as well. We both prayed at the tomb of St Thomas a Becket. I came home on the feast of St Peter and St Paul, the twenty-ninth of June. Kathryn mentioned that Margot and Bartholomew had eloped, but I thought nothing of it.’

Athelstan took a stool to the top of the table and sat down, cupping his face in his hand.

‘So, we have Bartholomew and Margot leaving the tavern late on the twenty-fifth of June. No one knew where they were going. Some months later their corpses are discovered in Black Meadow. I can see the line Master Whittock will follow. Bartholomew and the tavern wench went down to Black Meadow. Somebody met them there, gave them poisoned wine and buried their corpses.’ Athelstan shook his head.

‘Even the dimmest member of the jury will draw one conclusion: Kathryn Vestler killed them!’

‘Hear ye! Hear ye! All ye who have business before the King’s justices of Oyer and Terminer seated in the Guildhall of the King’s own city of London, draw close and witness the King’s justice being done!’

The herald standing before the bar of the court proclaimed the message twice again. In a blare of trumpets, the justices sat down on their cushioned seats beneath the great scarlet canopy. Athelstan, next to Sir John on the witness benches, closed his eyes, bowed his head and prayed. Brabazon looked in fine fettle, florid face beaming round the court. He was the King’s justice and the other judges, who flanked him on either side, mere appendages to his own majesty. On the red and gold steps below, Master Whittock, dressed in a russet robe lined with lambswool, sat like the chief justice’s hunting dog. The serjeant-at-law leaned slightly forward, keen eyes studying members of the jury as they took their seats and swore the oath. At the far end of the hall, men-at-arms in the royal livery held back the crowds. The news had spread throughout the city and many had flocked to the Guildhall to witness the unfolding drama.

The witnesses’ and spectators’ benches were full, so that Sir John had had to use all his authority to gain admission. Now he sat in his blue and gold doublet, cloak thrown across his green hose, legs slightly parted, tapping his high-heeled boots on the wooden platform. He kept glaring at the chief justice. Athelstan, who felt slightly tired after the previous day’s revelry, looked down at Mistress Vestler. She had been brought up in chains and now stood at the bar flanked by two tipstaffs carrying their white wands of office. Behind her stood a line of archers, arbalests hooked to their war belts.

‘May the good Lord and St Antony help her!’ Athelstan prayed.

Mistress Vestler looked pale in mourning weeds, black gown and a veil of the same colour.

‘You’d think she was dead already,’ Sir John whispered. ‘But she holds herself well. Pleas for mercy will find no echo here.’

Beside Mistress Vestler, Ralph Hengan sat and shuffled among certain papers. The small gate to the bar was open; two clerks carried forward a lectern which bore a book of the gospels. This was where the witnesses would stand, take the oath and give their testimony. Chief Justice Brabazon made a cutting movement with his hand. The two heralds stepped forward and gave a shrill blast on their silver-plated trumpets. The clerks seated at the foot of the steps rose, turned and bowed to Sir Henry. He nodded.

‘The court is in session!’ the chief clerk proclaimed. ‘Let the charges be read!’

Confusion immediately followed. Whittock sprang to his feet and walked down to stand at the other Side of the bar from Mistress Vestler.

‘You are?’ Sir Henry Brabazon asked.

‘Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. My lord, before the charges are read, I must inform the court that its principal witnesses Alice Brokestreet has been found poisoned.’

‘In which case,’ Hengan interrupted, ‘the case should be dismissed.’

‘Not so! Whittock retorted. He held up a sheaf of parchments. ‘Mistress Brokestreet had made a statement under oath; her testimony has been accepted by the court.’

‘Are you implying,’ Master Hengan snapped, ‘that Mistress Brokestreet’s murder must be laid at the door of Kathryn Vestler?’

‘What does it matter?’ Whittock replied languidly. ‘Hang for one, hang for ten, you are still hanged!’

Sir Henry smiled.

‘In which case,’ Hengan said, leaning against the bar, ‘I would also like the other matters to be discussed.’

‘What other matters?’ Sir Henry asked.

‘My lord, the corpses of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden were discovered in Black Meadow, which belongs to my client. However, my lord,’ Hengan pointed to Athelstan, ‘I can produce good witnesses and sound testimony that Black Meadow was used as a burial ground for victims of the pestilence. These human remains, pathetic though they may be, are not a matter for this court to consider.’

Sir Henry played with his scarlet skullcap and conferred quickly with colleagues on either side.

‘All this,’ he replied, ‘is wasting the court’s time. Hanged for one is the same as being hanged for ten. The murder of Alice Brokestreet is beyond the power of this court. As regards the other matter, there is no need to call Brother Athelstan.’ The chief justice beamed in Sir John’s direction. ‘I will accept what you say, Master Hengan. Clerk, read out the indictment!’

Athelstan relaxed. He was glad he wasn’t called as a witness. He listened to the charge, grim and stark that, ‘Kathryn Vestler did, on or around the twenty fifth of June thirteen-eighty, feloniously slay by poison Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.’

‘My lord.’ Hengan rose, grasping the bar. ‘My client goes on oath and pleads not guilty to this and all other specified charges which may be levelled against her.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Henry smiled. ‘Master clerk, read out the sworn statement of Alice Brokestreet.’

The statement produced nothing new. Master Whittock had been very careful not to introduce any other charges which could be challenged. It stated that Mistress Vestler had slain Bartholomew and Margot by an infusion of poison, that Brokestreet had helped take the corpses out in a handcart and bury them under the great oak tree in Black Meadow. How the felonious deed was Mistress Vestler’s doing and she, Brokestreet, had no choice but to co-operate. The clerk sat down.

‘My lord,’ Hengan began. ‘Mistress Vestler is a good woman, a respected member of the parish. She keeps a dole cupboard for the poor, gives alms generously and observes the King’s peace.’

‘Does she now? Does she now?’ Whittock came down the steps. ‘Mistress Vestler, you put yourself on oath in Newgate, when you denied these charges?’

‘I did.’

‘And you say you are a woman of good reputation?’

‘I am,’ came the calm reply.

‘Even though you smuggle?’

Mistress Vestler, warned by Hengan about what Sir John had discovered, remained silent.

‘We have found in the cellars of the Paradise Tree,’ Whittock continued, ‘small casks of Bordeaux, and even some from Alsace, which bear no customs mark.’

‘My lord,’ Hengan interrupted. ‘My client has been charged with murder, not with smuggling. She need not incriminate herself on charges she has had little time to reflect on.’

‘True, true,’ Whittock replied in a mock whisper. ‘I concede that, but you started, this hare, Master Hengan, so I think my observation is relevant.’

‘My lord,’ Hengan desperately tried to move away from the matter. ‘The indictment claims that Mistress Brokestreet knew that Kathryn Vestler poisoned her two alleged victims. However, we have it on good report that Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster left the Paradise Tree on the evening of the twenty-firth of June.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Whittock interrupted. ‘But, my lord, Mistress Brokestreet has sworn that the crime was committed that night. In other words, Bartholomew and Margot may well have returned to the Paradise Tree and the crime been committed when the tavern was empty, no witnesses being around. I will also demonstrate that Mistress Vestler had a great deal to hide on that evening. It’s best, my lord, if we listen to all the witnesses before we start proclaiming the truth.’

Sir Henry agreed.

‘In which case,’ Whittock went on, ‘I call Master Tapler, ale-taster at the Paradise Tree.’

The clerks of the court shouted the witness’s name from a small chamber at the other side of the hall, hidden in one of the transepts, Mistress Vestler’s ale-taster shuffled out. The man was nervous and, as he took the oath, hand on the book of the gospels, the judge bellowed at him to speak up
.

‘Well, well, sir.’ Whittock smiled across at him
.
‘We know who you are. We know where you work.’

Master Tapler looked decidedly agitated.

‘I want you, sir,’ whittock’s voice was almost a purr,’ to recall what happened on the twenty-fifth of June of this year. You had all returned to work after the Holy Day, hadn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, we had.’

‘And the tavern was busy?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Oh, so what time did you close?’

‘Well, sir, because it was summer, the curfew didn’t toll till about an hour before midnight’

‘What happened that evening? Anything extraordinary? Come, come, sir,’ Whittock continued sharply. ‘You know why you are here. Did Master Bartholomew come to the tavern?’

‘Yes, sir, between the hours of nine and ten. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the sun hadn’t set.’

‘And what happened?’

‘He stayed for a stoup of ale; rather excited he was. Then he and Margot left.’

‘Do you know where to?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And was Mistress Vestler around?’

‘She always is, sir.’

‘That particular night, what did Mistress Vestler do?’

‘Sir, she was most insistent that the cooks and scullions, tapboys and slatterns, myself included, all had to leave early.’

‘She was decidedly nervous, Master Tapler?’

‘Yes, sir, she was.’

Athelstan glanced at Sir John.

‘Oh, forgive me.’ The friar whispered. ‘Lost in my own trouble I should have questioned those people myself.’

Whittock, apparently distracted by the whisper, glanced across and smiled.

‘And what happened then, Master Tapler?’

‘Mistress Vestler urged us to leave, customers included.’

‘Why?’

‘I had the distinct impression,’ Tapler’s voice fell to a mumble, ‘that she was expecting someone.’

Whittock smiled from ear to ear.

‘Master Tapler, I thank you.’

Hengan did his best with the ale-taster but it was a losing battle. In fact, the more he questioned the more damaging it became.

‘It was very rare for Mistress Vestler to urge us to leave the tavern early, so why that night?’

Hengan realized the harm he was doing, stopped his questioning and Tapler was dismissed.

‘She’ll hang,’ Sir John Murmured. ‘God save us, Athelstan, but I think she’s guilty myself.’

‘The court calls Isobel Haden!’ the clerk shouted.

Athelstan’s head came up. A young woman came out of the adjoining chamber into the well of the court. The clerk escorted her to the witness stand and again the oath was taken. Whittock was now thoroughly enjoying himself.

‘We have your name and occupation,’ he began. ‘You are a seamstress in the parish of St Mary Bethlehem near Holywell. And your sister Margot was a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sir Henry was now leaning forward.

‘Did your sister enjoy her work?’

‘Yes, sir, she did.’

‘How do you know that? Come on, girl, tell the court.’

‘My sister wrote me letters.’

‘My lord.’ Whittock glanced at Sir Henry. ‘If necessary, I can produce these letters.’

The chief justice looked at Hengan who shook his head despairingly.

‘So, your sister, even though only a tavern wench, was lettered?’ Whittock asked.

‘Oh yes, sir, our father was a wool merchant. We attended the parish school and learned our horn books. He was very proud of Margot.’ Her voice trembled. ‘She could read and write.’

‘So she was more than just a tavern wench?’ Whittock insisted. ‘A young woman who might well attract the likes of Bartholomew Menster?’

‘Yes, sir. Margot only entered service because she wanted to leave the parish. A good lass, Margot,’ Isobel continued defiantly, looking balefully down at Mistress Vestler. ‘She would have made a fine marriage.’

‘And your sister wrote to you about her work?’

‘To be honest, sir, she liked the Paradise Tree. Miss Vestler was kind: she gave her money, clothes, as well as a Book of Hours.’

‘Did she now?’ Whittock purred. ‘My lord, a matter we will return to in the very near future. Mistress Isobel, in those letters, your sister told you how she had met Bartholomew Menster, a clerk of the Tower, that he was sweet on her but Mistress Vestler did not like it?’

‘Indeed, on one occasion, Master Bartholomew had sharp words with her.’

‘Over what?’ Whittock persisted.

‘According to the letter, Mistress Vestler had snapped: “I wish you’d leave the matter alone. You have my thoughts on it.”’

‘And you think Mistress Vestler was talking about your sister?’

‘Yes sir, and Margot did as well.’

‘Did Bartholomew propose to your sister?’

‘Yes, sir, he did. Margot had high hopes that they would exchange vows at the church door.’

‘Did your sister talk about anything else?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ Isobel paused and dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her brown smock.

Athelstan could see Isobel had been well prepared for this. She was undoubtedly telling the truth but Whittock’s questions were extracting this piece by piece so the jury could follow and understand the way he was leading.

‘Tell us,’ Whittock said softly.

‘My sister wrote that Master Bartholomew had high hopes of tracing certain lost treasures.’

Her words created murmurs in the court. Sir Henry tapped his knee excitedly.