Dark Fire

Judge Forbizer sat on his dais working on papers, his scarlet robes a slash of colour among the dull clothes of the rabble crowding the benches, for the assize was ever a popular spectacle and the Wentworth case had aroused much interest. I looked for Joseph and saw him sitting at the end of a bench, squashed against a window by the press of people, biting his lip anxiously. He raised a hand in greeting and I smiled, trying to show a confidence I did not feel. He had visited Elizabeth every day since Tuesday, but she had still not uttered a word. I had met him the evening before and told him I would try for a plea of madness, which was all that was left to us.

Some distance away I saw a man who looked so like Joseph it could only be his brother Edwin. He wore a fine green robe with a fur trim; his face was drawn with care. He met my look and glared, pulling his robe closer around him. So he knew who I was.

And then, in the row in front of Edwin Wentworth, I saw the young man who had been watching me near Guy's shop. Today he wore a sober doublet of dark green. He sat resting his chin on an elbow placed insolently on the rail separating the spectators' benches from the court. He stared at me speculatively, large dark eyes keen with interest. I frowned and he smiled briefly, settling himself more comfortably. So I was right, I thought, they've set this ruffian to watch me, try to put me off my stride. Well, that will not work. I hitched my gown and stepped away to the lawyers' bench. As this was a criminal trial it was empty, but as I sat down I noticed Bealknap in a doorway. He was talking with an official in clerical dress, the bishop's ordinary.

At that time there was still much corrupt use of benefit of clergy. If a man was found guilty of a crime, then by claiming he was a clerk in holy orders he had the right to be handed over to the bishop for punishment. All one had to do to claim benefit was to prove one was literate by reading aloud the opening verse of psalm 51. King Henry had restricted the use of benefit to non-capital crimes but the rule still stood. Those who satisfied the test were taken to Bishop Bonner's gaol until he decided they had repented; a repentance verified by twelve compurgators, men of good standing who attested to the convict's truthfulness. Bealknap had a ring of compurgators who for a fee would happily vouch for anyone. His sideline was well known throughout Lincoln's Inn, but no barrister would ever inform against another member of the profession.

As I took my place, Forbizer stared at me. It was impossible to gauge his mood; his thin, choleric face always wore the same expression of cold disgust at human sinfulness. He had a long, tidily clipped grey beard and hard coal-black eyes that stared at me coldly. A barrister appearing at a criminal trial meant troublesome legal interruptions.

'What do you want?' he asked.

I bowed. 'I am here to represent Mistress Wentworth, your honour.'

'Are you now? We'll see.' He lowered his head to his papers again.

There was a stir and everyone turned as the jury, twelve well-fed London merchants, were escorted into the jury box. Then the door from the cells opened and the tipstaff led in a dozen ragged prisoners. The more serious cases were heard first, the ones that carried the death penalty; murder, burglary and thefts valued at more than a shilling. The accused were manacled together at the ankles and their chains made a clanking noise as they were led to the dock. They brought a mighty stink with them and some spectators produced nosegays, though the smell did not seem to trouble Forbizer. Elizabeth was at the end of the line next to the fat woman, the alleged horse thief. The woman was tightly grasping the hand of a ragged young man who was trembling and fighting back tears, her son no doubt. I had only seen Elizabeth's face before; now I saw she had a comely figure. She wore a grey indoor dress, crumpled and filthy through being worn over a week at Newgate. I tried to catch her eye but she kept her head bowed. There was a murmur among the spectators, and I saw the sharp-faced young man studying her with interest.

The prisoners shuffled into the dock. Most had frightened, drawn expressions and the young horse thief was shaking like a leaf now. Forbizer gave him a hard look. The clerk stood and asked the prisoners, one by one, how they pleaded. Each replied, 'Not guilty.' Elizabeth was last.

'Elizabeth Wentworth,' the clerk asked solemnly, 'you are charged with the foul murder of Ralph Wentworth on May sixteenth last. How say you – guilty or not guilty?'

I felt the courtroom tense. I did not rise yet, I must wait and see whether she took this final chance to speak, but I looked at her beseechingly. She bowed her head, the long tangled hair falling forward and hiding her face. Forbizer leaned across his desk.

'You are being asked to plead, Mistress,' he said coldly and evenly. 'You had better.'