The court was full when the sheriff brought the accused from his cell. John Shirlok glanced at the jurors who would try him – twelve local men who shuffled and sighed their resentment at being forced to spend their precious time listening to unsavoury tales of robbery, burglary and murder. They were supposed to be respectable, up-standing citizens of good character, although Shirlok knew that simply meant they were men who had been unable to think of a good excuse to absent themselves. All were wealthy – they wore fur-lined cloaks and thick boots against the bite of late winter – and none would be sympathetic to the crimes Shirlok was accused of committing, but he was not unduly worried. There was no question of his guilt – he had been caught red-handed with stolen property, and that alone was enough to earn him an appointment with the hangman. But he had a plan. No thief worked alone, and Shirlok intended to walk free from the castle that day.
‘I bring John Shirlok before you,’ intoned the sheriff, quelling the babble of conversation that had erupted while the felon was being fetched from the gaol. ‘He stands accused of stealing white pearls, valued at a hundred shillings-’
‘Shirlok?’ interrupted Justice Sir John de Cantebrig. He was presiding over the court, making sure the trial and its subsequent conviction – he did not think acquittal was very likely in Shirlok’s case – followed proper protocols. ‘That name is familiar.’
It was his clerk, a clever lawyer called William Langar, who answered. Langar was tall, thin and had spiky ginger hair; his duties were to advise Sir John on the finer points of the law and to make an accurate record of the proceedings.
‘Shirlok was due to appear before you two months ago, Sir John,’ Langar said. ‘But he exercised his right to challenge the jury we assembled. He objected to eleven of them-’
‘That was because they were kinsmen of-’ began Shirlok indignantly.
‘Silence!’ snapped Langar. He turned back to the Justice. ‘He will make a fuss about any jury if we let him, just to delay his hanging, so I suggest we proceed as planned today. We cannot house thieves in our gaol indefinitely, and he has been enjoying our hospitality for three months already.’
Sir John nodded. He knew all about the devious ploys felons used in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. He glanced at Shirlok, taking in the sly, foxy expression on the man’s face, and the way his eyes were never still. He did not think he had ever seen such transparent guilt. ‘Very well.’
The sheriff glanced at the parchment he held. ‘I was listing the items Shirlok stole, some of which were found on his person – such as the white pearls. Next, there was a chalice worth twenty shillings that belonged to the church at Geddynge . . . ’
A murmur of distaste ran through the hall. Theft from a religious foundation was a serious offence. Shirlok heard it, and his composure slipped a little. ‘I had nothing to do with taking that cup.’
The sheriff waited for silence, then continued again. The list was extensive – linen cloth, a brass pot valued at two shillings, an expensive rug, a two-coloured coat, a jug he called an
‘We have recovered some of these items, and they are here for your inspection,’ concluded the sheriff eventually. He turned to rummage in a box he had brought with him. ‘The Geddynge chalice was found in the possession of one Lora Boyner, after Shirlok had sold it to her. She claims she bought it in good faith.’
He held aloft a goblet, reclaiming the attention of the bored jurors – even Sir John had been lost in a reverie about the sorry state of his winter cabbages. The cup was not very big, and its battered, stained appearance suggested it was old. There was an etching on one side, which was worn and faint, although anyone with keen eyes would see it involved a baby.
‘That is worth twenty shillings?’ asked Sir John, trying to make up for his lapse in concentration by showing some interest. He took the vessel from the sheriff and studied it. ‘Is it silver?’
‘It is just some old thing,’ said Langar dismissively. ‘The rector of Geddynge maintains he recently bought it from a travelling friar, but when Shirlok stole it-’
‘I
‘He did – and then he had the gall to sell it to me,’ declared Lora Boyner indignantly. She was a squat, mus cular person who made her living by brewing ale; Sir John had often marvelled at the way she could lift a full keg as if it weighed nothing. ‘He said it belonged to his grandmother, and I believed him – poor fool that I am.’
