A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He never liked discussing his master, and to do so in so cold a manner – as if he were a … a thing … instead of a man – caused an uneasy rolling in his gut. But he listened, because Nigellus was spearing him with an intense gaze, so intense that he could not move or look away.

  Nigellus laid one hand over the other and looked up at Jack from under his well-shaped brows. ‘You must realize this task will not be easy, and juries typically come in with their verdict within minutes of the trial’s beginning. The sheriffs, aldermen elected to their esteemed office, are anxious to show their best faces to the king and to urge their fellow aldermen to someday elect them to the prestigious office of Lord Mayor. To that end they will be doing their utmost to get a swift conviction … and a conviction, I’m afraid, means that your master will hang.’

  Jack blinked back the tears. Tears did his master no good. He pressed his lips tightly together.

  ‘It will be my task, therefore,’ Nigellus continued, ‘to prolong the proceedings in order to buy you time. I am already forming a plan as to how to do it, but it is a fine dance between the letter of the law and annoying the recorder of London. For John Tremayne is a man who will brook no foolishness. And much you may have seen to the contrary, I am not a foolish man. So … knowing now all of this, do you wish for me to proceed?’

  Jack girded himself. He couldn’t do it alone and this man, whatever his inexperience, seemed to be a man of conviction and confidence. Jack, much like Master Crispin, relied on the truth of his gut.

  He nodded. ‘In all haste, Master Nigellus.’

  SEVEN

  Thursday, 15 October

  It was later in the day, well past None, when Nigellus Cobmartin walked in long strides toward Newgate. With the sun on his back it had been a comfortable walk, but there was no accounting for the strange and sudden cold under the arch of Newgate’s prison. Perhaps it was all the lost souls who had suffered within its stone walls and had remained to haunt the place. He shivered at the thought, crossed himself, and gave a curt nod to the serjeants.

  ‘Ho, good gentlemen!’

  They turned, looking him up and down. His dark houppelande was fairly new and relatively clean, as were his hands, though his fingers were permanently stained with ink. A chaperon hat with a shoulder-length liripipe sat on his head, sheltering his eyes with shadows, and he carried a leather folder bulging with parchments under his arm. He felt, with a little preening, that he looked like a proper lawyer, having sloughed off the mantle of student nearly a sennight ago.

  One of the serjeants postured while leaning on his pike. ‘Master?’

  ‘I wish to see one of the prisoners, my client.’

  ‘You will have to talk to the sheriffs.’

  ‘Very well, then. Lead me.’

  The serjeant looked put out by this order, but he nevertheless set his pike aside and climbed the stairs. ‘Mind your head,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Nigellus ducked when instructed and followed the man. His senses were wide awake, absorbing all around him, the smell, the sounds, the touch of the cold stone against his hand. This was only the second time he had been to Newgate and it felt just as exhilarating as the first, though he tempered his worldly feelings with thoughts of his sacred duty. He called upon the saints and angels to help him on his bold course for he knew that he was but a small cog in the greater wheel of God’s universe. And vanity was a trap from which a soul could not easily escape.

  But even as he climbed the stairs, he hoped that Master Guest was kept in a small private cell, for Nigellus did not wish to go down into the dreaded dungeons of the place. A cold, miserable habitation it was, where prisoners, both men and women, mingled in the same large cell, where fetid disease ran rampant, where immorality was the stock and trade, where the best men with the best of intentions soon succumbed to the worst that dwelled in all men’s souls. No, a prison was a ghastly place, and the briefer the time there, the better.

  The serjeant opened a door to an alcove where a clerk was bent over his table and gestured Nigellus in.

  The clerk didn’t look up as the serjeant retreated. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, still writing, dipping the quill, writing.

  ‘Master Nigellus Cobmartin to see the prisoner Crispin Guest.’

  The clerk stopped writing and turned over his shoulder. He set his quill aside and hopped down from his chair. Moving around a pillar, he stood in an archway. ‘Lord Sheriff, a lawyer here to see Crispin Guest.’

  Nigellus tried to peer over the clerk’s shoulder and could only just catch a glimpse at the dark, bearded man. ‘Is there? Send him on, by all means, Eckington. Guest’s trial begins Saturday, after all.’

  Surprised, Nigellus stifled his indignation. In this Jack Tucker was right. The sheriffs plainly wished to rid themselves of Master Guest. And though they no doubt covered the letter of the law, they would do their damnedest to skirt its soul.

  ‘Very good, Lord Sheriff. Come this way, Master Cobmartin.’

  Nigellus bowed toward the sheriff’s voice and hurried after the clerk who had not waited for him.

  A brazier glowed a gold wash against the stone wall as they reached another arched doorway and came upon a hall of sorts. Tall narrow windows with bars embedded in the stone cast light and cold into the space, hence the large brazier with its roaring flames in the center of the room. The chamber smelled of rot and mildew, and Nigellus thanked a generous God once more for setting him on this path to help the helpless.

  To the side was a long table with benches, and at one of the benches sat a man drinking ale from a horn beaker. His tunic was of leather as was the cap he wore. Dry brittle hair stuck out from under it, and his chin and cheeks bristled with dark coarse stubble. The side of his face was bruised with a stripe of dried blood running down from the cap.

  He looked up when their steps scratched at the floor.

  ‘Master Melvyn,’ said the clerk, ‘I have here Lawyer Cobmartin. He is here to see Crispin Guest.’

  ‘Guest has a lawyer?’ said the man in a gravelly laugh. ‘Little good it will do him.’

  Nigellus adjusted his gown. So little regard for jurisprudence, he huffed. Had not all prisoners the same prospect under the law?

  The man pulled himself from the bench and shuffled forward. His posture was slightly bent and he looked over Nigellus with a sneer of disdain. ‘Come along, then.’ The keys at his belt rattled as he walked with an odd rolling gait.

  Down a corridor they went, the hall growing darker the farther away from the warm brazier they got. Only a few oil lamps burned in alcoves. They reached a door with a grille at head-height and Melvyn slammed his keys against it. ‘You’ve a visitor, Guest. Stand away from the door.’

  The man put the key to the lock, turned it twice, and opened it. ‘In with you, lawyer. Call to me when you are finished.’

  Nigellus’s stomach fluttered as he pushed forward. He did not know what to expect of this first meeting with the notorious Crispin Guest, the man who could not seem to be killed. Not even the king could seem to accomplish it. He expected a devil, a dark man, perhaps with horns. He girded himself for whatever he might see.

  Taking a breath he rounded the door and peered inside. A simple cell with straw upon the floor. There was a cot with a straw-stuffed mattress, though the straw smelled of mildew. A table and a chair were all the furnishings left in the place. An arrow slit for a window threw a narrow band of light across the wall, and the hearth had a small fire from a pathetic square of peat.

  And there, standing before the hearth, was the man himself. His dark cloak draped around his stooped shoulders like a shadow. He was of medium height, with intense narrowed eyes of gray slate, and black hair hanging well below his ears. His nose was straight and sharp and his mouth curved down in a frown. There was dried blood and fresh bruises on his square chin. He had a patrician air about him of tarnished nobility, which the man had certainly earned.

  No horns,
however.

  Heavy shackles harnessed his ankles, but perhaps they had nothing to do with his natural stillness.

  Guest turned at Nigellus’s step. ‘Who are you?’ he asked with a roughened voice. The predatory eyes studied him relentlessly, following his every move.

  Nigellus bowed. ‘My dear Master Guest,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was retained by one Jack Tucker as your lawyer. I am your servant, Nigellus Cobmartin.’

  At the mention of his apprentice, Guest’s whole demeanor changed. The dark suspicion of his pinched face suddenly relaxed. The resigned set to his jaw fell away, replaced by eyes shining with light and warmth. The transformation took the lawyer’s breath away. ‘Jack? He … retained you? And how much did that cost us?’

  ‘You mustn’t worry over that, Master Guest. You have more pressing concerns, I daresay.’

  ‘I must worry over it. For Jack must have enough income for his upkeep when I am gone.’

  ‘Really, Master Guest. I find that line of thought an insult to my abilities at the bar.’

  ‘Forgive me. But I do not know you.’

  ‘Well, allow me to say that I have had excellent training at Gray’s Inn from some of the finest legal minds in London.’

  ‘How long have you been practicing law?’

  ‘For just over a sennight.’

  ‘Good Christ.’ He turned back to the fire and warmed his hands.

  ‘Master Guest, we haven’t any time to waste.’

  The animation he had seen only moments before in Guest’s eyes faded. ‘I believe it is all a waste, Master Cobmartin. Are you familiar with the details?’

  ‘Master Tucker was most thorough. But I should like to hear it from you.’

  Guest sighed and turned back only enough to stare at Nigellus. He offered him the chair with a nod and Nigellus bowed, strode forward, and took it. He laid his folder on the table, took out ink and quill from his scrip, and blew his warm breath onto his fingers, readying to take notes.

  Guest looked him over with a snort and turned to the fire once more. Still shackled but seeming unperturbed by the heavy irons, he told his tale plainly, adding no embellishments, and Nigellus dutifully took it down in his swift and thrifty hand.

  ‘So you see, Master Cobmartin,’ he said when he’d finished, ‘I fear – unless Jack can uncover the culprit forthwith – that there is very little for you to do.’

  ‘It is clear, Master Guest, that you do not know the law as intimately as I do. For there is very much indeed to do. The witnesses must be beaten down – oh, only in the sense of a verbal sparring with logic and rhetoric as my weapons. Nothing physical, certainly …’ His gaze scanned Guest’s bruised chin once before he turned back to his parchment. ‘And the recorder must be appeased with eloquent argument. The sheriffs equally pacified so as to appear robust without actually being proved wrong. And most of all, I must find a way to convincingly stall the proceedings so that your apprentice can do his proper investigating and find the true culprit.’

  Guest slowly turned and measured Nigellus with an unusually intense scrutiny. One side of his mouth gradually drew up in a lop-sided grin. ‘I see Jack chose well.’

  ‘I hope I have earned your confidence, too, Master Guest. For there is much to accomplish.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He shuffled away from the fire, manacles clanking on the stone floor before he dropped heavily to the cot. ‘What would you have me do, Master Cobmartin?’

  ‘Well …’ Nigellus glanced around the small cell. ‘There is little for you at the moment, Master Guest. I need not tell you all of the obstacles you are up against, not the least of which is your … unfortunate past.’

  A brow rose, but he made no comment.

  ‘These witnesses will be our bane. Master Tucker tells me he is having trouble finding one of them, but this might prove to our advantage. Tell me, you were unacquainted with the victim prior to your congress with her the day before?’

  ‘I had never heard of nor met her.’

  ‘But you felt compelled as a matter of honor – even in your, er … less than sober state – to attempt to warn her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nigellus dipped his quill and jotted down some notes. ‘That goes very well indeed, Master Guest. It shows a certain level of rectitude.’ He took a few more notes and then looked up. Guest’s gaze was steady. He sat upright without slouching, hands laid on his thighs in a posture of readiness as if he would bolt from his seat at a moment’s notice, manacles or no manacles.

  ‘I take it you cannot claim benefit of clergy?’

  He released an airless chuckle. ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. Very well. Let me explain the procedure, then. You will be tried before the Common Pleas at the Guildhall. There will be a presentment, which is a formal presentation to the court regarding the offense. Jurors are being selected now by the sheriffs within the Bread Street Ward. They will be amongst those with a relevant knowledge of the crime and those who are acquainted with you personally as a judgment of character.’

  For the first time, he saw Guest shift uncomfortably.

  ‘The jurors will be familiar with the case and the testimony before the trial convenes, you understand. For all intents and purposes they are investigating the crime and will be fully familiar with the details such as they are. They merely witness to the facts as presented. But we may call further witnesses to add to the facts they have already heard. Now. This is very important. I am not permitted to speak for you during the trial. My purpose is to instruct, to gather evidence, and to teach you to present it. Ita lex scripta est. It is you, not I, on trial. And so you must defend yourself, Master Guest. Silence is acquiescence. Silence is guilt. You are expected to speak.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good. Vérité sans peur, eh? You mustn’t be afraid to speak the truth. Now, though it is also true that witnesses for the defense are discouraged, they can be permitted if the recorder is willing to entertain them. And it is then that I am permitted to question the witnesses. But remember, both the jury and the judges have already been acquainted with the crime and testimony and may have already decided the case before the trial.’

  ‘I have been on trial before, Master Cobmartin.’

  Nigellus caught the sharp edge of Guest’s comment. ‘Oh … oh y-yes, of course. However, a trial for treason is a different kettle of fish than a trial for murder, though they are very similar—’

  ‘Let us hope the outcome is far better this time.’

  ‘Oh indeed, Master Guest. That is my wish also.’

  He waited, but Guest had nothing to add. He merely stared at Nigellus with a penetrating glare.

  ‘Take heart, Master Guest. I have no intention of losing this case. London would be the poorer for it if they hanged you.’

  ‘My sentiments as well, Master Cobmartin.’

  ‘Of course. Have you, er, anything to add? Anything at all?’

  Guest edged forward, leaning his forearms on his thighs. ‘I discovered that Elizabeth le Porter’s former mistress is the owner of a relic, the Virgin’s Tears. She claimed that Mistress le Porter left her employ because of that relic; that it was mutual. But of that I have my doubts. Especially after Madam Peverel’s rivals, the Noreys boys, came to my lodgings. They claim Mistress le Porter was paid to steal the relic, which was clearly still in the possession of the Widow Peverel.’

  ‘But now, these Noreys men. You said before that they ambushed you?’

  ‘They ransacked the place and lay in wait for me in my lodgings.’

  ‘That does show a certain level of culpability on their part. And they threatened you?’

  ‘They jumped me with their knives drawn. I was lucky to escape with my own life.’

  ‘Though John Noreys wasn’t as lucky. That is a shame. Did you bring charges?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point.’

  Nigellus huffed down at his parchment. ‘But my dear Master Guest, it would be a stronger case for your character to prove that you hold dear y
our honor.’

  ‘I consider it dishonorable to have to prove my honor so!’

  Nigellus stared at him for a long moment. Laymen. They did not understand the law at all!

  ‘Well, be that as it may. Though it may have little bearing on your murder charge, this is certainly something with which you can cast doubt upon your having committed the crime, and wave a flag of proof for your statement that some unknown person had paid you to murder Mistress le Porter.’

  ‘But why try to murder her if they had already paid her to steal the thing … which she hadn’t done? Was it because they were afraid of her? That she might tell? Or was she extorting them?’

  ‘Ah. I see. How clever your mind is, Master Guest. You pick at the marrow to get every last morsel.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, eyes narrowed in distaste. ‘But will it not be a problem of logic, then, to try to prove Walter Noreys guilty of murder if he is also supposed to be guilty of hiring her to commit larceny?’

  ‘Not if it can be proved. Casting doubt is our flagship, Master Guest. To think you guilty is not enough for a jury to convict. They must be certain. And if Walter Noreys proves an impediment to that, then we must bless his interference.’

  ‘We will see.’

  ‘Indeed we will. For now I shall assist Jack Tucker where I can prove useful. And you, dear sir … well. Your prayers will suffice.’

  ‘Let us hope so. And Master Cobmartin, please remember: It is possible to fail in many ways … while to succeed is possible only in one way.’

  ‘Quite true, Master Guest, quite true.’ He rose. ‘I shall endeavor to succeed.’

  They bowed to one another, and Nigellus went to the grille in the door and called for the guard.