‘Well,’ he said, sat on a little stool opposite me, ‘what is your plea?’
My mouth was full of gravy and thick, dry crumbs.
‘You may wish for the judgement of God, or you may go to trial. I assume you wish to go to trial?’ I nodded vigorously. If you wished for the judgement of God, then there was no disgrace upon your family, nor would you be executed in public. However, you were laid upon your back on the floor over a large boulder. A board was placed upon your stomach upon which were loaded heavy stones. One by one. Over the course of several days.
‘Then you may plead innocence, self-defence or provocation.’ He regarded me earnestly with anxious brown eyes. I considered. The fact was that I had stuck Prynne’s stick into Keeling’s ribs. That was an accident, self-defence or provocation? If I was successful in pleading an accident then I would be acquitted. If I was found guilty of self-defence then I would be pardoned, but would be fined a sum of money equivalent to the value of all my goods. Which by now was half what it had been anyway. If found guilty of killing Keeling under provocation, then I’d lose my property and be branded on one hand. The jury would never believe it was an accident; he came at me with a knife and I stabbed him.
‘Self-defence,’ I replied.
‘Very well.’ He opened a volume that lay upon his knee and wrote in it. He then closed it and stood up.
I was by no means ready to go back into the stone hold. ‘When will the trial be?’
Sitting down again he replied. ‘I think the day after tomorrow, or perhaps even tomorrow. They are keen to try you quickly.’
‘Who will be my counsel? Will it be you?’
‘No-o, Mr Lytle. In cases such as these you are not permitted counsel. You will represent yourself.’
I had thought so. ‘To whom then do I submit my list of witnesses?’
The young fellow looked at me wonderingly from out of his fresh innocent face. Like mine had been. ‘You are not entitled to submit a list of witnesses.’
‘But I have witnesses who I believe will be willing to testify.’
‘No matter. There will be only one witness, I believe.’
I was frightened. I knew that you could not force a man to testify against his will, but I felt sure that at least William Ormonde would want to set the record straight, and I was sure that Dowling would speak up for me. ‘Who is the witness?’
The young clerk opened his book again and turned its pages. With one finger he slowly traced a line down one page and then another, until he found what he was looking for. ‘Ah-ha.’ He looked up and regarded me enquiringly. ‘A friend of yours, I think?’
Dowling?
‘William Hill of Basinghall Street?’
‘Hill?’ Hill as sole witness? What did that signify?
‘I think the only other thing I can tell you is that the judge will be the Right Honourable James, Earl of Mansfield and the prosecutor is the Attorney General himself.’ I knew neither. ‘And you can of course challenge up to thirty-five jurymen, though I would consider challenging none.’
‘Why so?’
Pulling a face he whispered, ‘The Earl of Mansfield will not like it. He has a foul temper and little patience, and may hold it against you.’
‘I see.’ No counsel, no witnesses and a judge keen to finish quickly. It did not bode well.
‘I will leave you some clean clothes to change into.’
‘That is good of you.’
‘No, sir,’ he grimaced. ‘It is not for you, it is for the judge — he would not let you in his courtroom smelling as you do.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good luck.’ He stood and regarded me awkwardly. ‘May God be with you.’
‘Thank you.’ I sat and looked at the flagstoned floor. He hadn’t been so far.
Back in the hold I racked my poor brains. What could it mean, calling Hill as the only witness? True — he seemed to be working for Shrewsbury, but what motive could Shrewsbury have for seeing me condemned? I had spoken to Hill three times during this affair. Every time he had urged me to Epsom. So I had gone to Epsom, discovered what he wanted me to find, and got rid of Keeling for him besides. Hill was my friend. We had spent countless nights together drinking ale, smoking pipes and sharing our lives. Surely he would not turn the tale so that I was found guilty? Surely?
Chapter Twenty-Four
All the plants that grow freely with us have a nodding head, which feature easily distinguishes it from others and it has no need of further description.
They allowed me to wash, gave me new clothes and removed my manacles for the trial. The clothes did not fit well, were made of rough linen and indeed were not all that clean, but they were a great improvement on those that had begun to stick to my skin down in the putrid environs of the stone hold. I felt like the King of England himself as I walked into the courtroom, my newly shaven head free of lice, my feet and arse mercifully dry.
As we walked down the bright wooden corridor, alive with people going out about their business with energy and commitment, I felt my own soul awaken. It was contagious, and I found myself imagining all kinds of optimistic outcomes. After all, was not my fate in the hands of my closest friend?
My mood changed completely when we entered the courtroom. There was not a face I recognised. To my left was a crowd of men, gentlemen they looked like, gathered in small groups of two or three talking seriously. When I entered, flanked on either side by my guards, all eyes turned to me and the din transformed itself instantaneously into a low buzz. I saw horrified fascination and disgust, timorous excitement, anger and fear. None of these men were my friends. I was escorted to a seat at the front of the court where again I sat with guards on either side, and waited.
The Attorney General and the judge entered together, which did not seem proper to me. They spoke to each other in rapid serious staccato, talking as fast as they walked. Obviously they knew each other well, but were in serious mood. They looked at me together, at the same time, short, sharp glances, then strode on. The Attorney General settled himself to my right where he was immediately engulfed in a small army of assistants that had been following at a distance. The judge climbed a short staircase, sat down and started a conversation with one of the clerks at court. They talked for many minutes, never once looking in my direction. I wondered if any would notice were I to discreetly depart. I doubted whether I was to be a real player in this drama at all.
At last the court was called to order. Now the judge looked at me, peering at me down his long nose with cold, stern eyes as the indictment was read out for all to hear. An old man with a long, narrow face, his lips seemed to be curled inwards in a sign of universal disapproval. I returned his stare for a while, which he didn’t seem to like, for his cheeks went red, so then I looked the other way, towards the prosecutor, upon reflecting that it would not be a good idea to anger the man unnecessarily. The prosecutor was also staring at me, but with a broad, contented smile. A stout fellow, but much younger than the judge. Underneath the edges of his periwig I could see strands of straight black hair, ungreyed and oiled. His brows were thick and black, his eyes a very dark brown, deep and impenetrable. He sat back carelessly with his well-rounded stomach sitting up for all the world to gaze on — if they so cared. After watching me for a while his eyes returned to scanning a paper he held in one hand, just in front of his double chin, caring not if I continued to stare at him, nor who looked away first. Indeed he reminded me of a wealthy merchant sitting in the corner of a coffee house reading the daily news-sheet, happily anticipating a large breakfast.