The jury now had the girl’s fate in their hands. Sir John had no doubt what that fate should be. He had known from the moment she had entered the courtroom, flaunting herself in a scarlet dress cut so low that he half expected her breasts to ride over the neckline with every breath she drew. She had tried to pull the dress up, but the jury, all Protestant men of property, had frowned at the harlot costume.

Sir John’s troubles had begun at the opening of the trial. That fool Higbed had assured him there was a confession, but Sir John, who prided himself on his thoroughness and his meticulous application of the law, had found an anomaly. “It says here her name is Dorcas Campion Scammell. That’s not the name on the charge.”

Higbed had half stood, half bowed and smiled. “As your Lordship observes, it is the name she chose to sign herself.”

“But is it her name?”

“No, my Lord.”

“If this isn’t her name, then this isn’t her confession. I would have thought the rawest lad in the law would have known that, Mr. Higbed.”

“As your Lordship pleases.”

It had not pleased Sir John, but the law was the law, and Sir John embodied the law, and so he had demanded evidence.

So the witnesses were called, the evidence laid damningly before the jury. Goodwife Baggerlie, coached by Caleb Higbed who had thought the confessions too pat to convince Sir John, swore that she had heard Campion declare she would murder her husband by witchcraft. Maleficio was established.

Ebenezer Slythe, his face pale, pleaded for his sister’s life. Sir John interrupted him. “I thought this witness was here to give evidence.”

Caleb Higbed smiled at Sir John. “We thought your Lordship might listen to a brother’s plea.”

Sir John groaned, shifting because of the pain in his guts. “The time for a plea, Mr. Higbed, is after the verdict, not before. Have you lost your wits? Or do you think I’m a fool?”

“Nothing is further from my mind, your Lordship.”

Ebenezer was dismissed. He stepped down with a smile. His plea for mercy was no more than a gesture to public taste, what the simpletons would expect of a brother. Higbed had assured him that Sir John Henge did not know the meaning of the word mercy.

Now, as the evening light dimmed the courtroom and shadowed the great royal coat-of-arms above Sir John’s head, an escutcheon that kept up the pretense that Parliament fought not the King but his advisers, the jury whispered together on their benches.

Sir John did not like his juries to take a long time, especially after he had more or less dictated their decision to them. He growled, “Well?”

The foreman stood up. “We are agreed, my Lord.”

“All of you?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Well?” Sir John Henge wanted this over.

“On the charge of witchcraft, my Lord. Guilty.”

A buzz went round the spectators, quelled by an angry glance from Sir John. Caleb Higbed looked with relief at the darkening beams. Sir John had already written both verdicts in his book, but he pretended to make a note.