‘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.’
She lifted her head and looked at him, but it was the same look she had given me in her cell: unfocused, blank, as though looking through him. Forbizer reddened slightly.
‘Mistress, you stand accused of one of the foulest crimes imaginable against God and man. Do you or do you not accept trial by a jury of your peers?’
Still she did not speak or move.
‘Very well, we will address this at the end of the session.’ He looked at her narrowly a moment more, then said, ‘Bring on the first case.’
I took a deep breath. Elizabeth stood motionless as the clerk read the first indictment. She stood thus all through the next two hours, only occasionally moving her weight from one hip to the other.
I had not attended a criminal trial for years and was surprised anew at the careless speed of the proceedings. After each accusation was read witnesses were brought on and put under oath. The prisoners were allowed to question their accusers or bring on their own witnesses and several matters descended to exchanges of abuse, which Forbizer silenced in a clear, rasping voice. The horse thieves were accused by a stout innkeeper; the fat woman insisted over and again she had never been there, although the innkeeper had two witnesses; her son only sobbed and shook. At length the jury were sent out; they would be kept in the jury room without meat or drink until they reached their verdicts and would not be long. The prisoners shuffled their feet anxiously, chains clanking, and a buzz of conversation rose from the spectators.
Everyone had been penned in the hot room all morning and the stench by now was dreadful. A shaft of sunlight from the window had settled on my back and I felt myself begin to perspire. I cursed; judges never like a sweating advocate. I looked around. Joseph sat with his head in his hands, while his brother studied Elizabeth’s still, frozen form through half-closed eyes, his mouth set hard. My watcher leaned back on his bench, arms folded.
The jury returned. The clerk handed Forbizer the sheaf of informations annotated with their verdicts. I felt the tension in the box as the prisoners stared at the strips of paper holding their fates; even Elizabeth glanced up briefly.
Five men were found innocent of theft and seven guilty, including the old woman and her son, whose name was Pullen. As the verdict on them was read out the old woman called out for the judge to be merciful and to spare her son, who was but nineteen.
‘Goodwife Pullen-’ Forbizer’s lower lip curled slightly, red amid his neat beard, his habitual gesture of contempt - ‘You took the horse together, you have both been found guilty of larceny and so there will be a pullen at both your necks.’ Someone among the spectators laughed and Forbizer glared at them; he did not like levity in court, even at his own jokes. The old woman gripped her son’s arm as he began to weep again.