•  Above, the great hammerbeam roof soared into shadow, its carved angels watching with expressionless faces. Light from the south window fell in pale stripes across the floor, catching the judges on their dais and leaving the rafters in darkness. The murmur of spectators echoed strangely in the vast space — a low tide of whispers, coughs, and shifting benches. To Dacre’s right sat the jury; before him, the King’s commissioners; behind him, the restless crowd. He felt the weight of the hall’s history pressing down, as though every trial ever held within its walls breathed upon his neck. 
• "William, Lord Dacrae of Gilsland, and Lord Greystoke, former warden of the Western Marches, former Commander of Norham Castle, you are here charged with holding unauthorized cross-border communications and privy dealings with Scottish rebels and Scots borderers; of failing in your charge to keep good rule upon the  Western Marches; tolerating disorderly men and concealed treasonous practises by way of misprision, to the peril of King Henry VIII and the realm of England, what say you to these matters?" 

The Marshall swept his gaze across the courtroom. A deep frown knitting his brow.

"Where is your counsel and defense sir?"

A hush fell over those gathered in the chamber. Every seat filled and the overflow spilling out into the courtyard beyond. Farmers, lesser gentry, noblemen and courtiers together, breaths held. Waiting.

William rose slowly, straightening his russet doublet—the white linen fabric of his shirt in crisp contrast to the fur lined collar of his forest green robe and black flat cap—and scanned the crowded hall.

He had been described thus: taller than average, strikingly suave, a daring rider, an honest landlord, and to his closest friends, ' lord of the stable'. A title bestowed upon him by the only woman he had ever loved.

“I am William, Baron Greystoke and Dacrae, Warden of the Western Marches, former Commander of Norham Castle,” he said, his voice strong, carrying through the vaulted courtroom.

“ I represent myself and I plead not guilty to these charges.”

A rustle began in the nearest rows. A murmur rose, swelling into a hundred whispered voices, most of those gathered- smiling.

Then, a single pair of hands began to clap.

A woman, stood. Impeccably dressed, her auburn hair arranged in the latest court fashion. She continued clapping, louder.  Beside her, a gentleman with glossy black hair and a swarthy visage—betraying more than just time spent under a foreign sun—rose to join her. One by one others followed their lead, until the hall echoed with applause, rolling through the crowd as a storm would break over the fells…and a mighty storm was coming.