From Absolution: A Question of Conviction:
“The ancient oak had stood sentinel over the crossroads for centuries, enduring harsh Norfolk winters, wet springs, and all too brief summers. If it could have a favourite season, it would be autumn, with golden light and the pleasant buzz of insects. But not the autumn just past. No, not that. The heavy burden its branches had to bear for many long weeks would disqualify that.
The rebels had hung here. Not just one or two, but a dozen or more. Their bodies left as stark warnings to any who might consider challenging the King’s peace again. Their crimes had been treason, their punishment swift and public.
But now the tree bore different fruit: Judge Thomas Wynford turned slowly in the bitter wind, his rich robes stiff with frost that shimmered in the grey December dawn.
This was not the justice of kings or courts. This was something older, more terrible, more personal.
Fifty paces distant, beneath the skeletal shelter of a bare elm, a cloaked figure knelt on the frost-hardened ground. Breath steamed in the cold air as Latin words fell from hidden lips, each syllable weighted with guilt and desperate hope for absolution.”