“That warehouse is not . . .”
“Mister Weatherall,” Lord Ragget interrupted Ian. “Do you own a warehouse on the north end of the docks?”
“I do not.”
“But you are aware of a white three-story warehouse with your black Weatherall dragon emblem on the door, are you not?”
“I don’t know why, but . . .”
“Yes or no, mister,” Ragget said quickly. “It’s a simple question in need of a simple answer.”
Ian glared at Ragget. What was the tricky lord trying to prove? The warehouse did not belong to him.
“Yes or no!” Ragget demanded. “Is there such a building?”
Ian studied Ragget for a moment longer. “Yes.”
“And yet, you claim to know nothing about this warehouse?”
“Yes.” Ian frowned. “No. I mean, I know it exists.”
“Make up your mind, sir,” Ragget said. He stood and paced in front of Ian’s box. “You are capable of that, aren’t you?”
Ian gritted his teeth. He was beginning to wonder if he could trust his mind at all. He was suddenly remembering many things he had strangely forgotten or had never thought about before. It was rather disconcerting.
Perhaps he’d hurt himself leaping from the king’s window . . . perhaps he’d struck his head and scrambled some of his memories . . . perhaps he was even now somehow caught in a strange nightmarish dream . . .?
Dear God, please let me wake up!
Nothing happened. Perhaps the One was disappointed in him.
“I will take your silence to mean that you’re still thinking that one over,” Ragget said. A few brave people seated in the gallery chuckled softly. Ragget smiled. “Do you know what is inside this warehouse?”
Ian chewed on his bottom lip. “I saw several crates.”
Ragget leaned in close and held a hand up to his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Can you speak up, so everyone can hear your answers?”
“I saw several crates,” Ian said loudly.
“And these crates? Were they marked in any identifying manner?”
“They had a black dragon . . .”
“Not just ‘a’ black dragon, but ‘your’ black dragon emblem, isn’t that right?” Ragget’s smile widened.
“They are not mine!” Ian protested. “I don’t know how they got . . .”
“So, what we have is a warehouse, bearing your emblem, full of crates, all marked with your same emblem, and inside these crates are the items you claim were destroyed in a fire.”
Ian smiled to himself. “No, that’s wrong. The crates were filled with weapons and gems.”
Ragget paused. “You opened these crates . . . these crates you claim do NOT belong to you?”
“Just a few,” Ian answered. If Ragget was setting him up, he would not have counted on him opening the crates. “They were from a different shipment. Your shipment.”
“My shipment?” Ragget questioned. He glanced back at the king and Ian thought he saw the two men share a brief smile. The small hairs on his neck rose. What had he stumbled into now?
“But you are the only one with rights to ship goods out of Scylthia,” Ragget said simply. “You have become a very wealthy man due to these exclusive rights.”
“I don’t have exclusive rights anymore,” Ian said. A shocked murmur coursed through the gallery. “Someone else must know how to sail through the Northern Reef.”
“Wait just a moment, mister. You don’t have the exclusive rights?” Ragget asked innocently. “Who does?”
Ian glared at Ragget. “You know perfectly well, it’s you!”
“You got me there, mister. I do indeed know it. Now let me ask you this, you weren’t very happy to learn about this bit of news, were you?” Ragget leaned on the edge of Ian’s box.
“No.”
“And you attacked me, didn’t you?”
Ian hesitated, but the memory of his attack surged to the front of his mind. He had cut Lord Ragget with Amarias’s sword. “Y . . . yes.”
“Your grandfather Alan Weatherall founded that outpost, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you stand to lose a lot of wealth, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Who signed the paperwork giving the Scylthian outpost to me?”
Ian bit his tongue.
Ragget cupped a hand to his ear and leaned in close. “I’m sorry, mister, I didn’t hear your answer. Who signed the paperwork giving the Scylthian outpost to me?”
“King Henrik.”
“Yes, King Henrik signed the paperwork and gave me the exclusive trading rights.” Ragget stepped away from the box and opened his shirt wide, revealing a long line of new pink flesh to everyone in the gallery. “And look what the accused king-slayer did to me once he learned this news . . .” A few gasps echoed around the room. “And all I was doing was following the king’s orders.”
Ian sagged against the wood rail. He had just provided the court with a motive for his attack on the king . . . and yet . . . he didn’t do it. He didn’t! He was innocent . . . and yet . . . he did remember holding his ornamental dagger over his head while in the king’s private chambers.
Ragget grinned triumphantly and paced back to his chair. Just before sitting though, he turned and stared at Ian. “For your information, the royal wardens inspected all of the crates in your warehouse and found every item you listed as lost. There were no weapons or gems.”
“Someone must have switched the crates!”
But Lord Ragget waved away his statement and sat down.
“Someone must have . . .”
“When were you at your warehouse last?” Lord Baumgarden suddenly asked. He was a tall, lanky man with piercing blue-green eyes and a rich, deep baritone voice.
“It is not my warehouse . . .”
“We have established that it is,” Edmund interjected. “Just answer the question.”
Ian sighed. “The morning before my arrest.”
“What were you doing there?” Lord Baumgarden continued. He stood and paced across the courtroom floor until he was standing beside Ian and looking back at Cecily.
“I . . . I woke up there . . . I was out . . .”
“And were you alone?”
Ian turned to face Lord Baumgarden. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cecily leaning forward again, watching him. There was something about her cold expression . . . Ian’s stomach lurched. She knew! Somehow, she had learned the truth and had asked Lord Baumgarden to speak for her during his trial. Ian remembered now. He and Cecily had argued earlier the day before and he had . . . he had . . .
He had found Josephine and when she refused to satisfy his needs, he had smacked her around and raped her.
The memory seemed all wrong and yet the images in his mind were so vivid. Ian looked down at his hands. The scratches on his knuckles were still there. Had he only been imprisoned a day? How was that possible? It seemed like he had spent weeks locked up.
“Mister, I asked you a question.”
Ian looked up at Lord Baumgarden. “No, I was not alone. I was with Josephine.”
“And was she well on that morning?”
“Lord Baumgarden,” Edmund interrupted. “We have already established that the prisoner is an adulterer.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Lord Baumgarden turned toward the king, “but I would like to reveal further information. According to witnesses, the accused is also a serial rapist.”
An angry cry rose up around the amphitheater, and it took Edmund a couple of shouts to quiet them again.
“Another outburst and I will clear the room!” he threatened.
Ian gripped the edge of the box and fought the urge to vomit.
“A serial rapist?” Lord Ragget asked from his chair.
“The accused has already suggested he raped our virgin Princess,” Lord Baumgarden said. “And now this matter has come to the attention of . . .”
“Enough!” Edmund waved a ha
nd in the air. “I’ve heard enough about both crimes. Regarding the charge of fraud, I find the accused guilty. The fine, Mister Weatherall, will be the entire contents of your warehouse.” He cleared his throat. “As for the charge of rape, serial or otherwise, I find you guilty. The punishment-”
“Without hearing any witness accounts!” Ian cut him off. “Ask Josephine what happened?”
It was a gamble. He remembered how badly he had treated her their last time together, but he also remembered how good they had been before that horrible night. Perhaps she could find it in her heart to forgive him and testify favorably on his behalf.
“We have attempted to bring her in just to hear her side of the story,” Lord Ragget said. “But she has killed numerous men recently including one of our royal wardens. An execution warrant has already been issued for your lover, mister.”
Ragget’s words were like a blow to his stomach. Ian sagged against the railing. Josephine, sweet Josephine, was to be executed? There had to be a mistake! She wouldn’t kill anyone. Not Josephine! “What kind of justice is this?” he demanded. “What kind of justice is any of this?”
The king jumped out of his chair and charged across the courtroom, favoring his injured hip. “You dare speak to me of justice, mister?” He grabbed Ian’s filthy tunic in both hands. “Your lawlessness has hurt so many of my people!” He slapped Ian across the face. “Especially my daughter!”
Lord Ragget hurried to the king’s side. “Your majesty, please, pull yourself together.”
The king slapped Ian a second time and flung him away. Ian slammed against the back of the box but somehow managed to keep his feet under him.
“I realize this is a difficult time, your majesty,” Lord Ragget continued. “You have just lost your beloved father, and we, our beloved king, but do not allow his taunting to overrule your fair-mindedness.”
“Yes, of course.” The king offered Lord Ragget a weak smile. “Thank you, Chief Inquisitor.”
The gallery quieted as the king resumed his chair. He smoothed his hair back and wiped a bit of spittle from the side of his mouth. “As I was saying . . .” He cleared his throat. “The punishment for the last charge is castration.”
Ian griped the railing and tried to keep the room from tilting any further. This was too much. The loss of his warehouse was tolerable. Unfair, but tolerable . . . but castration!
“Your majesty?” Lord Ragget spoke up. “Forgive me for pointing this out. I know you haven’t been to court recently, but castration is no longer the punishment for rape.”
The king’s head swiveled around, and he shot Ragget a cold stare. “No?”
“No, your majesty.” Lord Ragget gave Ian a cold grin. “A conviction of rape is punished by emasculation, the complete removal of both the penis and the testicles, not just the testicles.”
A yawning pit opened in the middle of Ian’s stomach. A cold chill raced up the ladder of his spine. His mouth went dry and his hands went wet. A black ring constricted his vision. He was going to faint. He was going to faint. He was going to . . .
A strange calm settled over him. His vision cleared. He stood up straight. His chin jutted forward slightly.
“The prisoner will be emasculated,” the king declared.
Ian didn’t flinch.
Lord Ragget’s brow furrowed.
“You are also charged with five counts of burglary,” the king continued. “Plead guilty and I may grant you some measure of mercy.”
Ian remained quiet.
“I am losing all patience with you, mister!” the king raised his voice. “Items belonging to the castle, Lord Ragget, Lord Roth, Lady Kindacaid, and Sir Tunney were all found in your vault. Wolfe Straegar, Captain of the Royal Wardens and both Lord Ragget and Lord Roth witnessed those items inside your vault. You have been declared the Thief of Belyne. What say you to these charges?”
“Not guilty.”
“Not guilty?” Lord Ragget scoffed.
“Someone else must have put those items in there.”
“Would that be the same phantom ‘someone’ you claimed switched the imaginary crates?” Lord Ragget asked with a sarcastic smile. A few chuckles escaped from the gallery and he acknowledged them with a wink and a smile.
“I couldn’t . . . I didn’t . . .” Ian fumbled. The idea that he was a thief was . . . that he could be the Thief of Belyne . . .
“What was that?” Lord Ragget asked, returning his attention to Ian. “Were you going to deny stealing from our vaults?”
“You told me,” Lady Cuci Kindacaid broke her silence, “no one could enter your vault except you. Did you not?”
Ian nodded. Only one other time had he heard Cuci’s voice so filled with sorrow and anger and that was at her husband’s funeral last summer.
“You said you hired a locksmith-mage from outside the city to increase the security on your vault,” Lady Cuci Kindacaid continued. Her eyes were wet with tears. “You said to trust you!”
“I’m sorry Cuci . . .”
“It is Lady Kindacaid to you, mister,” she snapped. Her brown eyes stared at him icily. “You asked me to trust you then, and I did. I thought you were working to help me, but instead, you were laughing at me, at us.” She paused to catch her breath and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You claimed your vault was impenetrable. You said a thief could not enter it, but you were wrong.” Her bright red lips tightened into a thin line. “A thief had entry to it all along!”
“Cu . . . Lady Kindacaid, I swear I would never . . .”
As soon as he began to deny his guilt, his mind flooded with images of her stolen wealth being loaded into his magic rug. That was how he managed to carry all the loot out of each vault undetected. In his magic rug. He had a magic rug. He remembered that now. How could he have forgotten that?
“I have heard enough lies from you, mister.” She crossed her arms and looked away.
Ian remembered the thrill he’d experienced while taking all the stolen items, he just couldn’t remember placing them inside his vault. That seemed a bit odd.
“Have all the items been returned to their rightful owners?” the king asked.
“All except Sir Lumist Tunney, your majesty,” Ragget said. “But, according to Captain Wolfe Straegar, there are warrants out for the old knight’s arrest too.”
“What has Sir Tunney done?!” Ian demanded.
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” the king said with a shake of his head. “On the five charges of burglary, I find you guilty. Your punishment is forfeiture of all wealth and properties. Your title and lands here in Belyne and throughout Yordic will revert back to the crown.”
Ian chewed the inside of his mouth and shook his head in disgust. Slowly, he was being stripped of everything, and he saw no way to stop it. King Henrik would never have allowed this charade to continue. And that’s what this entire proceeding was, a charade. A farce. A horrible nightmare.
His gaze slid over the faces of the lords and ladies on the panel. Except for Lord Ragget, all were friends, and yet, Glavinas, Lord Pilarro and Lord Arbassi had so far remained quiet.
Their cold stares spoke volumes though.
Lord Ragget cleared his throat. “Your majesty?”
“What is it now, Chief Inquisitor?”
Lord Ragget offered the king a thin smile and gently waggled his hands.
“Dammit!” the king grumbled. “In addition to the forfeiture of all wealth and properties, the Thief of Belyne will lose both hands at the wrists.” His eyes raked over the panel of lords and ladies and landed back on Lord Ragget. “Shall we throw in a foot as well? Both feet? We wouldn’t want him running off now, would we? What say you Chief Inquisitor? Should we snip off a couple of toes?”
“My humblest apologies, your majesty,” Lord Ragget bowed his head. “I was just . . .”
“Moving on!” the king cut him off. “The final charge. The murder of our beloved king.” He swallowed hard. “Plead guilty and I . . .”
“I am not guilty!” Ian shouted.
He could survive the loss of wealth. It was only material goods. The cargo, the contents of his vault, even his estate were all things he could live without. Emasculation. That gave him great pause. He could not even begin to imagine how painful such a mutilation would be, and he tasted bile every time he gave the idea even a hint of a thought, but . . . but . . . ultimately, he . . . could . . . survive that loss as well.
Less physically painful, but more emotionally disturbing for him was the fact that he had hurt Tyran with all his foul deeds and that King Edmund had named him a motherless bastard. But no matter what the Yordicians decreed, Tyran was still heir to Gyunwarian titles.
The loss of his wife . . . well, admittedly that was the bright spot of the day so far. The loss of his hands, however, was another devastating blow. He would just have to find a way to overcome that too . . .
But the title of King-Slayer? Ian took a deep breath. That was high treason. He knew the punishment for that crime and it was not something anyone survived.
“I am not guilty!” he stated again, for emphasis. “Not guilty!”
King Edmund leaned forward, his face hot and pinched with resentment. “We will see.”
chapter 54
Princess Cecily Rutherford watched as Ian’s life fell apart before her eyes. A few days ago, she might have felt sorry for him, pitied him perhaps, but now she didn’t feel any remorse or sorrow. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all.
No, that wasn’t true. She felt relief, satisfaction, but most of all, a giddy sense of excitement. She was free. Ian was no longer her husband, and Tyran was no longer her son or heir. No more would she have to endure the whispered voices, the nasty gossip, the wondering how she could mate with a foreigner. Nor would she be chronicled in the history books as the woman who birthed the hybrid king. In fact, as far as anyone was concerned, she was a virgin again, so said her father!
Cecily shifted around in her wooden seat and tried to find a comfortable sitting position. All the recent sex had left her more than a little tender. Not that she was complaining. Her body hadn’t felt so alive in years . . . though the muscles that ran down the backs of her thighs were still sore from having her ankles held above her head.
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