The Clerkenwell Tales by Peter Ackroyd (good short books .txt) 📕

remove the stench of the London prisons. All the judges carried with them a ball of linen soaked in aniseed and camomile; before they began their work they drank a posset of hogs’ feet and barley water, too, in order to ward off infection. As Martin came up with the two witnesses, the judge was ordering that a proclamation be made; anyone who had reason to suspect the said Janekin should come forward on the day following.

The overseer of West Smithfield, who had questioned Anne Strago, was then called to give his testimony. He named the prisoner as the felon, outlined the circumstances of the discovery, and recounted Anne’s subsequent charges against Janekin. He was then, according to custom, asked to address the prisoner directly to prove that he did not level his accusations out of malice. “I know you well enough,” he said to Janekin. “You robbed one Blaise White in Long Lane. You beat him. You took his horse and purse from him.” He looked across to Miles Vavasour, who made a sign to continue. “You are a hog who would rather run to turds than to flowers. I have collected three good men of the ward who will bear witness that you are a go-by-ditch, a steal-away, a late at home, a grass-biter, a wild wood-cat, a skulker –”

“Let your lips cover your teeth.” The judge had grown tired of the overseer’s diatribe. “You sing neither good tenor nor good treble, man. Let the sergeant plead the writ of murder.” Martin passed to Miles Vavasour the necessary formulae for pleading the writ; the plaints were confirmed, so that the process could continue. The sergeant turned at once to the act of poisoning. He recounted the circumstances in great detail; as the sergeants were trained to do, he imitated the gestures and expressions both of the murderer and the man who was slain. “Noctanter,” he repeated. It happened by night. He did not know this, but he knew that juries were particularly susceptible to crimes committed under cover of darkness. “I have this letter in my keeping, taken up in the unlucky merchant’s house. It is addressed to the poor afflicted wife. In this letter –” he held it up before the court. “In this letter Janekin confesses his heinous crime and pleads in redress his love for the said Anne.”

“What is this letter? Who wrote it?” The judge took a particular pleasure in interruption. “Tell me in plain words. One may see daylight through a small hole.”

Miles Vavasour then recited the letter of passion, which had in fact been fabricated by Anne Strago who had tired of her young lover. He concluded his reading with a flourish of his voice. “Written in no heart’s ease at London, the fourth day of July.”

“I am hugely astounded.” The judge had decided to intervene once more. “Is there any proof that the prisoner Janekin wrote this?”

“I suppose it to be his work, my lord.”

“Suppose? That is theory only. A great friend is Plato, Sir Miles, but a greater friend is truth. Wherefore suppose?”

Martin had been following this interchange closely, but his attention was distracted by a small man wearing the garb of a physician, who had entered the bounds of the court and was looking intently at Miles Vavasour. Miles, however, was being berated by the judge. “Will you stand angling to catch a few flies? Let the prisoner be unbound and stand forward.”

Janekin was led towards a wide table, laid with green cloth and covered by volumes and parchments, which separated the judge’s high seat and the desk of the sergeant-at-law. He seemed scarcely able to stand upright, and the tipstaff who had brought him from the gaol pleaded that he might be allowed to sit; the judge refused the request, and peremptorily began to question Janekin. The prisoner denied everything. He called himself “the woeful boy,” and complained that he had suffered grievously in Newgate through want of food and lack of physic; furthermore, no one had ever explained the charges against him until that moment.

“So you make your moan, do you?” The judge was very firm. “You make much sullen cheer with your countenance, as I see. But be merry, man. The truth will out. God give grace and all will be well.” Then, quite suddenly, he adjourned the case until the next day under the formula of inquisicio capta. He was fond of surprise in his court, which was the strangest mixture of order with confusion, of strict and binding rules of procedure with sudden tirades or arguments, of spectacle and colour with stench and disease.

Martin was about to accompany the sergeant-at-law out of the court, when Miles was stopped by the small man in the physician’s robe. “How do you fare, sir?”

“It is rare to see a leech in the house of the law, Master Gunter. What is your business here?”

“My business is with you. May I?” He took the sergeant’s arm, and they walked towards the pillar known as the tree of truth.

“These are unquiet times, Sir Miles.”

“Yes. The world will turn. Henry will be king.” Only the day before, Henry Bolingbroke had asked a committee to consider “the matter of setting aside King Richard, and of choosing the duke of Lancaster in his stead, and how it was to be done.” It was not by chance, as Miles knew, that several members of Dominus sat upon this committee.

“You are well acquainted with the world, Sir Miles. I have seen it.”

“What have you seen?”

“I have seen how the world is set. But these are close matters, I believe.”

“Matters?”

“They are known only to you and other secret men.”

“Will you break your mind to me, leech?” The sergeant-at-law was becoming impatient. “I am in a maze.”

“No, Sir Miles, I believe you to be in a labyrinth. But it is one of your own making.” Thomas Gunter quickly wiped his mouth with his hand. “Who entered the round tower but William Swinderby? Who but Geoffrey de Calis