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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