A Maiden Weeping Page 12

  The sheriff and his men turned down another lane and found a grand structure, half-timbered with a stone arched portico and a wide square. The Guildhall. The sheriff’s horse clopped over the cobblestoned courtyard. The crowd widened to cover the courtyard’s edges, leaving a wide berth around the sheriff’s men. Sheriff Loveney dismounted, his scowl deepening. ‘Keep these people back,’ he growled at one of his serjeants.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, clasping his pike tightly and lowering it at an angle.

  The sheriff flicked a glance back at Crispin. ‘I don’t know how you managed to stir them up, Guest, but there had better not be trouble.’

  Crispin said nothing. He shook his head in disbelief, taking in all the people and wondering if he was worthy of such patronage.

  The sheriff led the way through the entry arch. Crispin followed, felt the footsteps of Nigellus behind him. They walked through a corridor until it opened into the great hall.

  The sheriff announced, ‘Crispin Guest, the accused, coming into court!’

  The blood surged within him. Crispin longed to do something, to fight. But his only weapon would be his voice. He surveyed the room. The recorder of London, John Tremayne, sat on a raised dais on a great bench with a high back. He was alone.

  Before him, a wooden rail, or, Crispin supposed, a bar.

  Across the room were nine men, two rows of them on long benches. The jury.

  The serjeants marched Crispin to the center of court just below the dais and pushed him up against the bar with the jury behind him. He faced the judge even as Nigellus slipped into court and stood a moment with the others who had managed to get inside to watch the proceedings, until his lawyer made his way through the crowd to find a seat at a desk next to the clerk.

  Scanning further, Crispin noticed the eel monger, Hugh Buckton, standing uncomfortably, wide eyes looking about. He wrung his tunic hem in his hands. And not far from him, Regis Croydone the roper, searching the room curiously. And Alison Keylmarsh, the other witness.

  But no Helewise Peverel nor Walter Noreys.

  There were others there as well, no doubt waiting for their own trial today. Crispin’s was not to be the only one before the senior circuit judge. But how to stall his trial and his sentence?

  Crispin took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. This was significantly different from his treason trial. For there, it was plain what was to happen. He had said nothing. He had not wished to implicate any others and knew he was guilty. He greatly feared the grim punishment – that of drawing and quartering – but he well knew he had no choice. Not until Lancaster spoke up and spared his life. At that trial, he had been exhausted from days of torture that could not extract the other names in the conspiracy. He had expected his execution to happen immediately, set his mind and aching body to it. He had not expected the reprieve that had come like a wash of rose water.

  Today, however … today, in all truth, he did not know what to expect.

  The sheriff took the seat at the right side of the recorder and settled himself in.

  ‘Let us commence,’ said the voice of John Tremayne. Crispin stopped his musings and turned his attention to the man on the dais. ‘Will the clerk read the indictment from the sheriff’s calendar? And I must say, this shortened calendar perplexes me.’ He sent a glance toward the sheriff, who merely resettled himself on the bench.

  The clerk took up a parchment and read in a loud voice: ‘The information given to John Charneye, Coroner, and to John Walcote and John Loveney, Sheriffs of London, that a certain Elizabeth le Porter lay dead of a death other than her rightful death in the Bread Street Ward, in the parish of St Anthonine. Thereupon they proceeded thither and having summoned good men of that Ward, they diligently enquired how it happened. The jurors say that Crispin Guest of the Shambles did enter the rent of Elizabeth le Porter and the following day she was discovered dead. The witnesses Hugh Buckton, eel monger, and Alison Keylmarsh, widow, chandler, say on their oath that when on Wednesday, after the Feast of St Calixtus, fourteenth October, after the hour of curfew the said Crispin did enter the rent of le Porter and she was found dead the following day, Thursday fifteenth October. Being asked if they suspected anyone else of the said death besides the said Crispin, the witnesses say no. The corpse was viewed, and the neck appeared blue and inflamed.’

  Crispin had heard trials before, but to hear his own circumstances told in such stark language even gave him pause.

  He straightened when the recorder said, ‘You have been accused of the crime of murder of Elizabeth le Porter of Watling Street, London. How do you wish to plead?’

  In a loud, clear voice, Crispin replied, ‘Innocent.’

  The crowd murmured, some even tried to cheer, but Tremayne stared them down.

  ‘And how do you wish to be heard, Guest?’

  ‘By jury.’ He glanced across the hall to the seated jury who had, no doubt, already made up their minds.

  ‘Very well,’ said Tremayne. ‘Let it be known that today, on the seventeenth day of October, the twelfth year of the reign of our sovereign King Richard, the trial of Crispin Guest commences. Before the witnesses speak, does the prisoner have ought to say in his defense?’

  Crispin discreetly cleared his throat and bowed to the assembly. ‘If it pleases the court, my lords, jurymen, I do.’

  ‘Then speak, Master Guest.’

  His eyes tracked over the jury again. ‘On Wednesday night, I was approached by an unknown person and was delivered a message and a pouch of coins—’

  ‘How late Wednesday night?’ interrupted the sheriff.

  Crispin glared at him. ‘Late. Near Vespers.’

  ‘And in what state were you in, Master Guest? Would you say you were cognizant of your surroundings?’

  ‘I was drunk,’ he answered harshly. The jurymen mumbled.

  He took a breath and raised his chin. ‘I was drunk,’ he said softer. ‘But I was aware. Aware enough that when this person made his heinous proposal to me, I was stunned and felt suddenly responsible for its consequences. I—’

  ‘What did this … alleged … person ask you, then?’

  If you would stop interrupting me I’d get on with it! He breathed slowly. ‘He told me he was hiring me to murder Elizabeth le Porter.’

  The gasps from the jurymen and the audience told him that he should have parsed out that particular phrase better than he had. He flicked a glance toward Nigellus perched at a desk beside the clerk. They both furiously took notes.

  ‘And you took the money and that’s what you did,’ said the sheriff. ‘You murdered her.’

  ‘No! That is not what I did. He thrust the money pouch upon me and before I could rise to challenge him, he departed. When I found the name and address of the woman inside the pouch, I thought the only course was to warn her that someone had contracted for her demise. She needed to be notified, protected.’

  He wiped the sweat from his upper lip and continued.

  ‘I immediately set out for Watling Street. I found the door to the private stair, encountering the eel monger. I knocked, but he told me to go up, which I did. I knocked again and this time Mistress le Porter answered. She bid me enter and I told her my tale. She did not seem frightened by this aspect—’ And even now he wondered at it. Did she not take it seriously? No, it seemed she expected it. Or treated the threat like a naughty prank. She knew this person then. Knew them and did not fear them. But she was wrong. If anyone but Crispin had been hired … wait. What if the man had deliberately chosen Crispin, knowing he would go to her to warn her? What if that was the plot all along? She would know this man who hired him. It was merely a threat that the man well knew would never be carried out.

  Yet she was murdered just the same …

  Suddenly Crispin looked up. He had stopped talking in his musings and the sheriff and the recorder were both glaring. He cleared his throat again.

  ‘She, er … she felt no fear at what I related to her. Instead, she was most hospitable. O
ffering me wine.’

  The sheriff leaned forward and with a scowl asked, ‘Did you have relations with her?’

  The audience gasped again and murmured. Damn the man.

  ‘I … I was seduced by her charms. And I … soon fell asleep.’

  The sheriff sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. ‘I see.’

  Crispin had not meant to mention that part. Nigellus had instructed him not to, but thanks to the sheriff, Crispin’s shaky reputation was that much more tarnished.

  ‘My Lord Sheriff,’ said Tremayne, cocking his head toward Loveney. ‘Perhaps it would be more expeditious to simply let the accused speak. His testimony will, after all, be corroborated by the witnesses.’

  Loveney snorted, settled in his chair, and waved a hand at Crispin to proceed.

  ‘When I awoke the next morning, I found her dead. Strangled. It was not I who did it. I had slept through her murder, God help me. I cannot forgive myself for that. But it happened as I said.’ He took a deep breath. He knew the next part would tarnish him further in the eyes of the jurymen, but against Cobmartin’s judgment, Crispin opted for the entire truth. ‘And … because of my former difficulties with the office of the lord sheriff, I … stole away. Without saying anything, without alerting anyone. For the simple reason,’ he said louder over the murmuring of the crowd and the jury, ‘that I wanted to investigate the crime myself before turning myself in. Nothing would be gained by incarcerating me before I could help. Before I could find the knave that did it. Alas. I had not the time before I was nabbed by the sheriffs and was forced to abandon my pursuit. My apprentice has picked up the gauntlet and is investigating even as I speak, and I have no doubt that soon the true criminal will be found. And yet here I am in this unusually speedy trial. One wonders why it made it to the calendar rolls so quickly.’

  The sheriff leaned forward again. ‘It is on the sheriff’s calendar, Guest. You have no business questioning that. But that is beside the point. You were the last person to see her alive. All the witnesses say so.’

  ‘Clearly not, Lord Sheriff. For surely that was the real murderer.’

  The audience laughed and all the sheriff’s sneering could not make them stop.

  ‘But I contend you are guilty,’ said Loveney loudly over the crowd. ‘And further, I contend that your apprentice perpetrated two more murders merely to hide the scent of your own, for two women were also found strangled in London, not too far from the first.’

  The crowd gasped and the rumble of murmuring grew louder.

  Crispin glanced at Nigellus. It had been the lawyer’s plan to submit a writ, claiming Crispin couldn’t have done the crime so similar to the other murders, and here was the sheriff destroying that very tactic.

  Nigellus wore a stunned expression. But he soon shook it off, sent his parchment to the floor, and furiously wrote on a new sheet.

  ‘My lords,’ said Crispin above the rising voices, ‘what cause would I have had to kill that woman? She was in the other room, I was in the bedchamber. I was not angry with her. On the contrary. I worried over her wellbeing. To have strangled her would have taken great strength and determination, both of which I did not possess at that hour. And further, she fought her assailant. Under her nails was blood and hair. I haven’t any marks upon me.’

  Tremayne leaned forward. ‘What’s that you say, Guest? What about her nails?’

  ‘I inspected her as I am used to doing at the scene of a murder. I go through similar motions to try to detect who the assailant might have been. You might call it a routine inspection. If, for instance, a man is stabbed to death, I look at his hands and arms to see if he resisted, to see if there are cuts to his skin, defensive wounds. If he did not, then there might be cause to believe his assailant was someone he knew and trusted. Or that he was surprised from behind. Or a few other factors. If someone is strangled, they fight. They strike their assailant. Dig into him. His face, his arms. She fought. The evidence was beneath her nails.’

  Tremayne huffed, but he blinked, looking thoughtful. ‘What does John Charneye say?’ He waited but the room remained silent. Looking around, his face appeared puzzled. ‘Where is the coroner?’

  The bailiff bowed. ‘He … doesn’t appear to be present, my lord.’

  ‘What sort of trial is this? I should like to ask him if he has ever heard of such a method.’ He sighed impatiently. ‘We shall have to adjourn this trial while we wait. The accused is to remain here. Someone fetch some food and drink. You jurymen may wait here as well. Lord Sheriff, best call for the next trial on the sheriff’s calendar so that no time will be wasted.’

  Loveney’s face contoured to an unusually meek expression. ‘The next is also a trailbaston trial.’

  Tremayne screwed his lips tightly. ‘Then … the next on the calendar.’

  ‘And that one, too.’

  ‘For the love of … Lord Sheriff, know you not that it is your sworn duty to make certain the coroner is present for a felony trial of violence?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Do you realize that we should have finished at least ten trials today alone? And by this delay you postpone justice for all and sundry?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Ah, well, as long as you know!’ He paused before all but lunging at the sheriff. ‘Then go get him!’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ He signaled to a serjeant who ran from the hall to comply.

  ‘Then I suppose,’ sighed Tremayne, ‘we wait. This is obviously going to take longer than it should.’

  Crispin glanced at Nigellus who seemed satisfied and gave Crispin an encouraging nod.

  ELEVEN

  Friday, 16 October

  Jack managed to evade the sheriff. He sat on the roof opposite the tinker shop, crouched low in the shadow of the chimney. He couldn’t go home. The sheriffs knew where he lived. He couldn’t believe they would arrest him for those murders, but wasn’t that just like the sheriffs? Didn’t care who the real culprit was. They only wanted their writ done and over with. Never mind that the wrong man hanged for it.

  He tapped his lip. Where to go? It wouldn’t be much better going to the Boar’s Tusk, but at least there were places to hide there. It seemed his only alternative. He had to remain free or he couldn’t help his master. And, of course, himself, for they would never bother looking for another culprit once they had Jack.

  He slid backwards and up over the peak of the roof and down the other side. He landed in a heap in the back courtyard of a poulterer’s, scattering the hens and surprising a spotted dog who, rather than call the alarm, trotted forward and placed his forepaws on Jack’s chest, urging him to play. He patted the dog on the head and edged toward the fence.

  ‘Good dog,’ he said, climbing one leg then the other over the wattle fence. ‘We’ll play another day.’ He put his finger to his lips and the dog obliged, merely wagging its tail and panting with a wide smile and a lolling tongue. If only the sheriff’s men would be as cooperative.

  He trotted, keeping to the shadows and staying amongst the crowds, taking the long way around to Gutter Lane. Once he slipped through, he kept on trotting till he got to the tavern but decided to keep going until he could get around to the back into their courtyard by the kitchens. He hopped up to the wall and dropped down to the other side, never looking where he was going.

  He noticed the person too late, grabbed hold of them, and rolled along the ground. When he landed on top, he felt the soft pliant body against his own before he opened his eyes and beheld wide hazel eyes and a snub nose.

  ‘Oh! Blind me! I beg your mercy, Mistress Langton!’ He scrambled to his feet and leaned over to help up Gilbert’s niece.

  Flustered, she took his hand and when she regained her feet she stared into his eyes for a long moment before brushing harshly at her cotehardie and apron. ‘Master Tucker. You took me unawares. I wasn’t expecting … such an abrupt entrance!’

  ‘Forgive me. Are you hurt?’

  She rubbed at her elbow
with a wince but shook her head.

  ‘I have hurt you. Curse me for my impetuosity! My master is always berating me for that. Here, let’s have a look.’ She allowed him to take her arm. She had untied and discarded her long cotehardie sleeves in her work, so he pushed up the sleeve of her white linen shift, gently turning her arm. ‘You might have a bruise there. Is it very painful?’

  She slowly took her arm back, rolling down the sleeve and cradling the elbow. ‘No. It will be fine. Why were you climbing over the wall?’

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s a long tale, one for Gilbert if he’s about.’

  ‘He’s below in the mews. I’ll take you.’

  ‘No need, lass. I know the way.’

  ‘But he doesn’t like strangers to come below.’

  Jack offered a sunny smile. ‘I’m no stranger here, lass.’

  She raised her nose haughtily. ‘Nevertheless. Come with me.’ She moved forward, brooking no argument with her posture. Clutching her skirts, she raised the hem over the mud. She ducked through a door at the back of the stone foundation of the tavern and he followed. There were perks to following her, of course. He noticed how the apron strings cinched her waist, saw the swing of her hips and the plump of a round backside. So preoccupied was he at his observation that he nearly missed a step and stumbled.

  She gave him a scolding look back over her shoulder and he straightened, offering her a serious expression.

  ‘Uncle Gilbert! Here’s that boy to see you again. Jack Tucker.’

  Gilbert popped out from behind stacked barrels. ‘Well, Young Jack. What’s the word?’

  ‘The word, Master Gilbert, is not good. I am being pursued by the sheriffs for murder as well.’

  ‘What?’ He grabbed Jack’s shoulder and pulled him deeper into the room. The three of them stood within the nimbus of a small candle on a table. Gilbert set his jug aside. ‘Tell me!’