Shops and stalls were open, taverns and alehouses doing a roaring trade. A group of soldiers swung by, going down to the Tower. Debtors from the Marshal-sea, manacled together, begged for alms on street corners for themselves and other inmates. A group of acrobats, three young women and a man, were tumbling and turning much to the merriment of a group of sailors who were throwing coins into a clack dish for the young women to turn on their heads and let their skirts fall down.

Athelstan thought Sir John might be taking him to his house, or his second home, the spacious Lamb of God tavern. However, the coroner, shouting good-natured abuse at the riff-raff who recognised him, forced his way through the crowds into the courtyard of the great Guildhall. Archers wearing the royal livery stood on guard. Men-at-arms in steel helmets patrolled entrances and doorways, shields slung over their backs, spear and sword in hand. Gaudily coloured banners hung from the great balcony above the main doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.

'Of course,' Athelstan said, 'it's the Assizes…!'

'That's right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.'

'Who are they?' Athelstan asked.

'The others don't concern me,' Sir John said briskly, 'but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.'

Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan's sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.

'Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.'

'And is she guilty?'

'As Satan himself.'