Some two hundred feet long, and supported by fifty-six columns, the building was mainly used now as a museum and a repository for books and scrolls depicting the spread of the faith through these northern lands in the last eight hundred years. The prime exhibit was a golden urn, said to contain the ashes of Persis himself. Once a year the urn was carried into the cathedral for the Service of Healing, and pilgrims would travel hundreds of miles for the opportunity of touching it, and begging St Persis to intercede on their behalf, healing their bodies, or the illnesses of their loved ones. There were no pews now in the main hall of the Holy Court, but there were two hundred seats in the high galleries – one hundred on each side. At the western end of the hall, set upon a raised dais beneath an arched stained glass window, stood the Judgement Table.
The Bishop of Eldacre sat at the velvet-covered table, two abbots and three senior priests filling the other chairs. On this day the galleries were empty, for the trial proper could not be set until the judging panel had decided the merits of the case. Nevertheless, the trial date had, in fact, been organized for the following day.
Maev Ring stood before the table, her hands behind her, her wrists manacled together. Two priests, swinging bowls of holy incense on slender chains, were stationed alongside her. According to Church ritual no evil demon or spirit could be released while the incense burned. Maev glanced up at the tall, stained glass window. It showed the saint, Persis Albitane, kneeling before a veiled woman. Golden light was flowing from her fingers and forming a halo around his head.
‘Let the hearing begin,’ said the bishop. ‘I have many duties today, and my lunch is waiting.’
A black-garbed cleric moved into sight. He was a short man, potbellied, and wearing an ornate white wig. He bowed to the panel. ‘Lords and brothers,’ he said, ‘I represent the Church in this matter, and have affidavits and depositions to present.’
‘The court recognizes Arlin Bedver,’ said the bishop. ‘Let it be so recorded.’ The priest at the furthest end of the table took up a quill and began to write. The bishop leaned forward and stared at Maev Ring. ‘The trial is set for—’ he began.
‘I appear for the accused,’ came a voice, which echoed from the back of the building. The bishop appeared startled. His eyes narrowed. Alterith Shaddler moved past the equally surprised Maev Ring and bowed low before the panel.
‘You were not summoned here, schoolmaster,’ snapped the bishop.
Alterith opened a leather satchel and produced a sheaf of papers, and an elderly leather-bound volume of Holy Law. ‘According to the laws of Church and State – and I have here the relevant documents and texts – any Varlish of good standing, with a degree in Theology, can present himself as an advocate. I also have here copies of my degree from the Academy for the Instruction of the Righteous.’
‘You wish to be recorded as a speaker for witches?’ asked one of the abbots, a thin, elderly man with a reedy, high-pitched voice.
‘As I recall, sir, St Persis Albitane began his career by appearing for other saints accused by the Church of the day. He too was derided for speaking up on their behalf.’
The abbot reddened. ‘Are you suggesting, sir, that this holy and august panel can be compared to barbarians? Have a care, Master Shaddler.’
‘What I am saying, Lord Abbot, is that it is the right of every defendant to have an advocate. Maev Ring is an honest highland woman, accused by men who have much to gain from her downfall. I have my credentials with me. Do you deny me the right to represent her? I urge you to think carefully on this matter, for I also have here a letter which I shall despatch to the church authorities in Varingas, making it clear that, should I be denied, this hearing should be voided as an illegal action. A second letter will be sent to the king’s Privy Council charging church leaders in Eldacre with breaking the law of the king himself.’