“No, your majesty,” Ian said. “It is just . . .”
“Two of the judges are close friends of yours. Lords Pilarro and Arbassi generally have the same political views as you and Lord Baumgarden is married to your wife’s friend.” The king looked past him at the people in the gallery. “I think perhaps I should protest this panel. With such an obvious bias, I’ll be surprised to see justice done in regard to my father’s murder, the king’s murder. Wouldn’t you agree, mister?”
Ian glared at Edmund without saying a word. He recognized the king’s clever tactic. Unfortunately, he had stupidly protested the panel before thinking through just how Edmund would twist his statement. Ian sighed through his clenched teeth. He would have to be more careful, or he might as well plead guilty, sign his own death warrant and lay his head on the chopping block.
“Come, mister,” Edmund continued. “You speak when you should refrain and remain silent when you should speak.” He clucked his tongue. “Very well, if you have nothing more,” he smirked. “Chief Inquisitor?”
“Yes, your majesty?” Ragget replied.
“Do you believe yourself capable of fairly judging the accused, despite the injury you sustained by his hand?”
“Injury? What injury?” Ian asked sharply. Pockmark and Mustache stepped toward him. “I have done nothing . . .”
“Silence!” Edmund roared.
Ian stepped back and bumped against the rear of the box. The king glared at him murderously. “I am growing weary of you speaking out of turn,” he growled. “One would think you’ve never been in a court of law before!”
Ian held his tongue and struggled to unclench his fists. He needed to remain calm if he had any hope of winning the sympathy of the gallery.
Lord Ragget stood and allowed his shirt to fall open slightly, just enough to show the line of pink flesh beneath. “I believe I am capable of judging him fairly, even in my weakened state.”
Ian snorted, which drew another dreadful stare from the king. Lord Ragget carefully resumed his seat, wincing this time and politely acknowledged the few women in the gallery who cooed over his pain.
“And since you asked me, your majesty, perhaps you will allow me to inquire the same. Do you feel capable of judging the accused fairly, since you too were injured by his hand?” Lord Ragget spoke the question smoothly.
“A king is always fair in his judgment, Chief Inquisitor.” Edmund touched the stitched wound on his cheek. “But I will deign to answer you all the same. Yes, despite the injury I sustained by the accused, I know I am quite capable of judging him fairly.”
“I retract my protest!” Ian sighed. He tried to sound calm, but he was afraid his voice betrayed him. The king had won a couple of small victories already, and the real battle hadn’t even begun yet! Ian glanced over at Ragget and frowned. There was . . . something . . . something about the wound . . .
And then he remembered! During his meeting with Lord Ragget, he had snatched Amarias’s sword out of his hands and had sliced the Yordician lord viciously across the chest.
Ian swallowed hard. Although the scene played vividly in his mind, it seemed strange that he hadn’t recalled attacking Lord Ragget until just now. Usually he preferred to solve problems using his mind and his wits, not with violence, however out of frustration he had reacted viciously.
Another image flashed before his mind’s eye. He was standing on a field of battle, sword raised over his head, his suit of armor soaked in blood, and he was shouting a Gyunwarian battle cry. Ian frowned deeply. When . . . when had . . . that . . . happened?
“Very well,” Edmund continued. Ian noticed the corners of his mouth pulling into a faint smile. “Since you are done stalling, mister, I will advise you that if you plead guilty to all the charges and beg for mercy I shall grant you a swift punishment.”
“I don’t even know the charges against me . . .”
“KING-SLAYER!” someone from the upper balcony shouted. A chorus of echoed cries emanated around the room.
The king’s pale green eyes narrowed as he stared at someone above and behind Ian. “Another outburst like that, sir, and you will be detained in my dungeons!” He raked the room with his penetrating stare. “That goes for everyone. I will have order here!”
The room stilled. Even the breeze that had been lazily drifting through the open windows high overhead died. Sweat poured down Ian’s brow and he mopped at it with one of his ragged sleeves. Glancing up at the bank of windows near the top of the domed amphitheater, he guessed it was past midday. He must have slept through the carillon bells. In an hour or so, the courtroom would be sweltering hot. A bit of movement by one of the windows caught his eye. Perhaps someone who had been turned away at the door was desperate to watch the proceedings. They’d have to be to climb way up there from the outside.
The king lifted a scroll. “The first charge. Adultery.”
Ian blinked. Adultery? He turned and looked back at Cecily. She was staring right at him. No, not at him, he realized, through him. Her eyes were focused on a point just behind his face. She was trying to look nonchalant, but when she leaned forward and crooked one of her eyebrows triumphantly, he knew she was eager to hear his response.
“Mister do not turn your back to me!” Edmund ordered.
Ian swallowed. “This is absurd.” He faced the king. “Who brought that charge against me?”
“Your wife.”
“And what proof does she have I committed this crime?” Even as Ian spoke the words he remembered the broken desk lock and the one perfumed letter from Josephine.
The king snapped his fingers and Sir Walter Merriday stirred from his post at the corner of the dais. The white-haired man walked across the center of the amphitheater holding a stack of letters tied together with a sapphire ribbon.
“Do you recognize these letters?” Edmund asked.
Ian stared at the stack. He had decided earlier he would not lie. The truth would win the day for him. He had done nothing wrong . . . and yet . . . as he stared at the stack, he remembered . . . he remembered . . .
Josephine had sent him at least twenty or so love notes over the past few months.
“Mister, I asked you a question. I demand an answer!”
“Yes . . .” Ian sputtered. “But, I can explain . . .”
“Who wrote these letters to you?” Edmund interrupted.
Josephine’s smiling face appeared before his mind’s eye. She was such a beautiful woman. Breathtakingly so. He’d first seen her on stage and he’d been drawn to her from that moment on. He didn’t want her to get caught up in this terrible matter. “A . . . woman. A woman wrote those letters.”
“Yes, and please tell the court, what is her name?”
“She is not on trial here.”
“Do not tell me how to run this court, mister!” Edmund bellowed. “Just tell me her name!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Her name, mister!”
Ian bowed his head. “Josephine Hewes. But she . . .”
“Josephine Hewes, the actress?”
He had watched her disrobe on stage during a performance of ‘Alegar and Sylvia’ and after the show she had disrobed again for him . . . privately . . . upstairs . . . “Yes.”
“She is a stunning woman, wouldn’t you say?”
In his mind, his gaze meandered from her sensual lips down her long slender neck and lingered on her perfect breasts. “Yes . . .”
“She’s quite a seductive woman too, wouldn’t you agree?”
She hummed a soft melody as her hips swayed from side to side. Her hands sliding down over her body. Fingers splayed. Curious. He imagined her hands were his. “. . . Yes . . .”
“And how long have you known Josephine Hewes?”
He wasn’t sure. It seemed like he had only known her for a short time, and yet, a flood of images surged past his mind’s eye, memories of nights spent together. “It must have been . . . I don’t know . . . at least a couple of months.”
“A couple of months?”
“Yes.”
“And have you had sexual relations with this woman?” Edmund pressed.
Ian stared up at the king. He blinked. He had never considered himself a man capable of being unfaithful to his wife, even after his marriage to Cecily had soured, and yet . . . and yet he recalled many wonderful, breathtaking nights spent in bed with Josephine. They had made love numerous times. She made him feel so happy . . . and special . . . and wanted . . .
“Mister, I have asked you a question. I demand an answer!”
Ian closed his eyes. Tyran was sitting only a few feet behind him. He had never wanted to do anything to hurt his boy or to endanger the peace between Yordic and Gyunwar and yet . . . he had been weak! He had surrendered to his sexual needs.
“Mister!” The king slammed his fist on the small writing desk in front of him. Ian’s eyes snapped open. “You have already testified that you find this actress, Josephine Hewes, to be a stunning and seductive woman, a woman you have known now for a couple of months. We have in our possession a stack of rather suggestive love letters written to you by this woman. I ask you again, have you ever had sexual relations of any kind with this woman?”
Ian stared down at his feet. “Yes . . .”
“Mister, you are mumbling. You need to speak up,” the king’s voice boomed. “We did not hear you.”
“Yes!” Ian looked up. “Yes . . .” He gripped the wood railing. How could he have allowed himself to . . . to have an affair with another woman? For so long, he had fought against his lustful behavior.
Ian stopped. He wasn’t being completely honest with himself or the courts. He wasn’t just having an affair with Josephine; he had fallen deeply in love with her despite still being married to Cecily. Ian hung his head. His marriage might have been nothing more than years of bitter resentment, but he had still betrayed his wife and his vows. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you may be, mister, but being sorry for being an adulterer is not enough. I have in my hand,” Edmund lifted another piece of paper, “a request for an annulment entered by your wife. The Princess wishes to be absolved of this matter and in light of your damning testimony, I am willing to grant her this absolution.” The king reached for a quill. “I hereby declare your marriage annulled effective immediately. All mention of it will be stricken from the books. It is now as if it has never happened. Furthermore, the Princess is hereby restored to and may resume the use of her real name, Cecily Rutherford. This I so declare.”
The king signed his name to the page with a grand flourish.
Lord Ragget cleared his throat. “Your majesty . . . if I might . . .?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I have a question for the accused.”
The king waved a hand. “Proceed.”
“Mister Weatherall,” Lord Ragget leaned forward in his chair and tented his long fingers in front of his chin. “We all know you have a son, Tyran. Can you tell me who your son’s mother is?”
Ian frowned. “What are you getting at, sir? Cecily is Tyran’s mother.”
“I see.” Ragget turned back to the king. “Your majesty, in light of this new confession I’d like to add . . .”
“What new confession?” Ian demanded.
Edmund slammed his hand on his desk. “You will remain quiet, mister!” He turned back to Ragget. “Please continue.”
“As I was saying . . .” Lord Ragget stood and looked out over the assembly. “We all know the Princess has never been married and therefore, she must be . . . a virgin. However, the accused has just now stated the Princess is the mother of his son. Either, the accused is lying about his son’s true mother, or he raped the unwed virgin Princess and further violated her with his seed. Which is it, mister?”
Ian’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “You . . .” He shook his head. “By his own hand, the king just annulled my marriage to the princess and now you accuse me of raping her? We were married when she became pregnant!”
“Such a marriage has never existed, mister,” Lord Ragget said. “Now answer the question.”
“I cannot. Neither option you presented me is truthful. During the time I was married to the Princess Cecily she gave birth to our son!”
Lord Ragget turned to the king. “Your majesty, perhaps you can compel the accused to answer the question.”
“Mister Weatherall, will you answer the Chief Inquisitor’s question?”
“I have.”
“Not to the satisfaction of the court, mister,” the king said. “Therefore, I shall make my ruling on this matter despite your lack of cooperation. The child known as Tyran Weatherall . . .”
“Tyran has nothing to do with these proceedings,” Ian shouted. “Leave him out of this!”
“I will remind you again, mister, I decide what is, and what is not, part of these proceedings,” Edmund growled. He dipped the quill into the bottle of ink. “The child commonly known as Tyran Weatherall will now be known from this day forth as Tyran Moat-Betarde, Tyran the Motherless Bastard. I further declare that this motherless bastard is non de’herytae. He is no longer heir to the Yordician throne, he never was the heir to the Yordician throne and his name shall be stricken from the List of Ascension.”
“Punish me if you must, but do not punish my son!” Ian shouted. “He is innocent!”
“He is nothing,” Edmund declared. “And do not worry, we will get to your punishment soon enough.”
“He is born of the Princess . . .”
“That boy,” Edmund pointed, “is Tyran Moat-Betarde and you should be grateful of that fact, mister. To say otherwise would find you guilty of rape.”
“He is the rightful heir . . .”
“No spawn of yours, mister, will ever sit upon the Yordician throne!” Edmund roared.
A thunderous applause erupted throughout the amphitheater. Edmund allowed it to continue until it died on its own accord. He signed all the required documents and raised them in the air. “Cecily Rutherford, my virgin daughter, Princess of Yordic, you are officially absolved of any sins perpetrated by this adulterer. You are a free woman.”
Ian glanced back at Cecily. She was beaming. Her gaze momentarily washed over him, but then she looked through him again, though this time, her attention seemed focused on someone on the panel. The corners of her eyebrows lifted, and she exchanged a knowing glance with . . .
Ian knew without turning back, but he looked anyway.
Lord Ragget returned her smile.
This entire fiasco made sense now. The private look shared between the two of them spoke volumes and Ian was a quick read. She and Lord Ragget had rekindled the relationship they had shared years ago prior to his arrival in Belyne. The truth of it was written all over her smiling face. Flirting with Lord Orrington had been nothing more than a diversion. All along, she had wanted only one man.
And that man was doing his best to destroy him!
The king handed the documents to Sir Merriday. “Enter these into the proper books.”
“Yes, your majesty.” The old knight cast a disappointed glance in Ian’s direction as he returned to his corner post.
The king reclined in his chair. “Now that we have that out of the way, let us proceed.” He gazed down at Ian. “Or do you wish to plead guilty to all the other charges and save us all some time and aggravation?”
Ian took a deep breath and bowed his head. The gold ring on his left hand made him sick. He tugged at it, struggling to get it over his swollen middle knuckle, until finally with a yank, it twisted free. There was a moment of exhilaration, but the sensation died as quickly as it lived. He dropped the ring. It clanked against the marble floor and rolled to a stop at the edge of the dais.
“What’s the next charge?”
Edmund glowered down at him. “Fraud.”
“Not guilty!”
“Really?” Edmund sounded surprised. “I have papers here, sent by you addressed to my father, the previous king, recounting t
he losses you sustained due to a fire at a warehouse and on a ship.”
“I had my manservant, Wynston, prepare those papers, but I’m sure they are accurate.”
“Ah yes, Sir Wynston Bidwell. He was found posthumously guilty of violating the king’s law . . .”
“Posthumously?” Ian gasped. He glanced back at Tyran. “What happened?”
“Do not turn your back to the king,” Sir Merriday reprimanded him.
Tyran dragged his eyes off the floor. His face was drawn and haggard and it looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Ian wanted so badly to pull him into an embrace and to tell him everything was going to be fine. Tyran briefly met his gaze and slowly nodded. Wynston was dead. Then, he looked away and Ian fought back the tears. In that moment when their eyes had met, Ian had seen great sadness and disappointment there and it was like a knife through his heart. Ever since Tyran’s birth, Ian had worked to be a good father, a good person, a person his son could look up to and admire. Where had he gone so wrong?
“Tyran,” Ian called softly. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Mister Weatherall, you must turn around!” Sir Merriday gestured toward Pockmark and Mustache. The two guards each grabbed for one of his arms.
Ian winced at their rough handling and spun back around. Wynston must have gone in his place to the duel with Orrington. That would explain the sentencing Lord Orrington had received during the previous session. However, if Cecily hadn’t visited Lord Orrington, why had the pompous lord sent a letter to him demanding a duel? Ian glanced over at Lord Ragget. Was he behind Lord Orrington’s downfall too? Had he seen the man as a threat and schemed with Cecily to be rid of him as well? How deep did their conspiracy go?
“You requested a refund on the tariff you paid for those lost items, a tax due to the crown,” Edmund droned.
Ian returned his thoughts to his current predicament. “Yes . . . that is the standard procedure. Your father often refunded the gold collected on lost goods.”
“My father was a kind and forgiving soul,” Edmund stated flatly. “I am neither.” He held up a second scroll. “I have here a list of items recovered in a warehouse on the north end of the docks.”
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