"I can imagine." Would she ever have children now? It was clear enough Trick would never commit to the sort of marriage she'd dreamed of all her life, but could she learn to live with less? Could she accept only that part of him he was capable of giving? "I'm so happy for them—"
A knock on the door interrupted, and Cait went to answer.
"Are you finished, my lady?" Soft-spoken, her maid entered and began gathering dishes. She refilled their cups with the dregs of a bottle of wine, then smiled, revealing small, child-like teeth. "Would you like another bottle now, milady? I can ask John to fetch one from the cellars." John Foster was one of Cainewood's footmen and Dulcie's latest amour.
"Thank you, that would be nice." Cait set a decimated tart on the tray. "How is Foster today, Dulcie?"
"Oh, fine, milady. He's had a half-day off and been into the village to visit with his mother. Would you know, he came back with interesting news."
Kendra drained her cup. She hoped this Foster fellow would fetch a new bottle soon. She needed more wine if she was going to decide whether to give up on the love of her life. "What news is that?"
"Word has it that the Black Highwayman has been caught and arrested at last. Hauled off to London this very day to be tried."
"Tried?" Kendra's cup clunked to the marble-topped dressing table. "When will he be tried?"
Dulcie's gray eyes filled with confusion. "Monday, your grace. Say...are you all right?"
Kendra woke in her old bed at Cainewood with two of her brothers hanging over her. She blinked at the mint-green canopy above their heads, wondering how she'd gotten here.
Had she fainted? She'd never fainted before in her life. Trick would pay for this.
Then she remembered, and an aching hollowness opened in her heart.
Trick wouldn't pay for this. Trick would be dead.
She struggled to sit, glancing around to make sure no one but family was in the chamber. "Did you hear?" she asked, her vow of silence forgotten.
Her brothers, after all, were not the villains in this tragedy, no matter how much she wanted to blame them. She needed them, and they were here for her, as they'd always been.
"Aye, they've heard," Cait said softly. "I told them."
Kendra's stomach felt leaden, and tears threatened to leak from her eyes. "How can this have happened now?" One tear did leak, running hot down her cheek. "He promised he was finished playing that game."
Though Jason's eyes were compassionate, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I warned him."
"He must have gone out and done it anyway. Stubborn fool." And more fool she, for believing him when he said he'd stop. She sat and swung her feet off the bed. "I must go to him."
Ford put a hand on her arm. "I thought you wanted to be rid of him?"
"I thought so, too," she said, her voice rising in a wail. Her earlier anger seemed to have vanished, replaced with a fear that clawed at her insides. "But I never wanted to see him dead!"
Jason sat beside her and gathered her into his arms, patting her back as she sobbed against his shirtfront, wetting his shoulder. "Perhaps he'll be acquitted."
Accused outlaws were rarely acquitted, but she clung to that thin thread of hope. "I must go watch the trial. Take me to the trial."
"Think, Kendra." Ford crouched by the bed, looking up at her, his bright blue eyes filled with the calm reason that seemed to evade her but come so easily to him. "Why would the Chases attend the trial of a common criminal? What will you tell those who ask? Especially if you look...distraught."
God, he was right. As things stood, no one connected the Duke of Amberley with the Black Highwayman, but if anyone discovered she'd been married to the notorious outlaw, her reputation would be in tatters—along with that of the rest of her family.
But this was Trick. No matter how angry she was at his falsehoods and deceptions, she had to go to him. Had to see what was to become of the lying, cheating rogue she'd lost her heart to.
"I'll wear a disguise," she said. "But I'm going."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Never in her life had Kendra thought she'd find herself outside the Justice Hall at the Old Bailey. After nearly two days spent in a sleepless fog of wrenching misery, endless tears, anger, and self-doubt, she'd thought that actually getting here and seeing this trial through would be something of a relief.
But she knew now that nothing could be further from the truth.
The courtyard viewing gallery was mobbed with Londoners hoping to get a glimpse of the notorious accused, and even more people stood outside the spike-topped iron fence. Wearing Dulcie's gray skirt and plain blouse, with her telltale red hair stuffed under a mobcap, Kendra grasped Ford's hand and pulled him through the masses toward the front.
A light rain was falling, making the spectators—no polite crowd to begin with—even more surly. "Whyever do they make us stand outside?" she grumbled, dodging a sharp elbow as she made her way to the three-walled open courtroom.
Ford pushed back the straw hat he'd borrowed from a stableman. "It reduces the risk of prisoners infecting the spectators with gaol fever," he explained in his usual matter-of-fact manner.
She returned a tradesman's dirty glare with one of her own, tugging her sleeve down to cover her amber bracelet as she pushed her way to the rail. "Oh, God," she breathed, her heart clenching when she reached the front. She gripped the rail with both hands to keep her knees from buckling. "Oh, God, there he is."
Gazing at Trick, she slowly jockeyed herself over to the right, nearer to where he sat in the enclosed dock, chained to eleven other men.
He was wearing black velvet and the long brown periwig that she hoped would keep any spectators from recognizing him as the Duke of Amberley. But the wig was a tangled mess, the usually immaculate black suit all rumpled, and he looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. His head was bowed, and his hands hung limply between his spread knees.
A guard reached a pike through the bars to prod him to stand when the red-robed judge walked in, followed by jury members who shuffled to two long benches. The dock's door swung open with an ominous creak, and the prisoners began making their way to the bar, their chains clanking as they dragged on one another.
Watching Trick, Kendra felt as though her heart might burst. Literally pulled along by the others, he stumbled and had to be righted. Dark blood crusted his wrists beneath the iron cuffs. A sheen of sweat slicked his features, and he seemed to be having trouble simply drawing breath.
He was ill.
She pressed against the rail as though she could reach him. So close, maybe ten feet away, but oh, so far with the law between them.
So very, very far. And ill.
"Dear God," she whispered to Ford. "Can he have caught the gaol fever already?"
"Hush." Her twin's eyes filled with sympathy as he peeled one of her hands from the rail, lacing it with his. "It's starting."
The prisoner's names were called one by one, and they identified themselves by raising a hand. The charges were read in Latin before each of the accused pleaded either guilty or not guilty.
"But they cannot even understand the charges!" Kendra whispered in horrified protest.
With unbelievable swiftness, witnesses were brought forward and evidence was presented by the prosecution. Prisoners were not allowed counsel. Of the eleven men brought to trial before Trick, one was acquitted when no witnesses appeared. The other ten were all sentenced to death, for felonies ranging from stealing an orange, to setting fire to an outhouse, to murdering a neighbor.
By the time Trick's turn arrived, Kendra had lost all hope. Tears swam in her eyes, and her body felt like a single, heavy mass of dread.
"The Black Highwayman," the clerk read, and the crowd hissed gleeful disapproval. They had saved the best for last.
When Trick failed to raise his hand, the prisoner next to him did it for him.
"What be your name?" the clerk demanded.
Trick stared blindly ahead. A long silence stretc
hed.
"What be your name?"
He hung his head, looking too weak to lift it. Too weak to answer.
A speculative murmur rose from the onlookers. The guard prodded Trick with his pike, and Trick stumbled to his knees, taking the prisoners on either side down with him. With a rattle of chains, they hoisted him back up.
"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"
Inside her, Kendra was screaming. He was too ill to defend himself; couldn't they see it? Couldn't they wait for another day?
"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"
"Can you not see he's ill?" she called out. A gasp of disapproval rose from the crowd, and the clerk glared in her direction.
Trick's gaze snapped to meet hers.
Recognition lit his eyes. But from where Kendra stood, they looked black, not golden. Dilated and dark, filled with regret and defeat.
She'd lost her amber highwayman already.
The clerk tried another tack. "Black Highwayman, what do you plead?"
Trick's gaze was still locked on hers. One hand reached into his pocket, and he slowly drew out a piece of paper, crumpling it in his fist. Something was written upon it in black ink, but much too far away to see.
"The press!" The crowd began to chant. "The press! The press!"
"What is that?" Kendra asked, afraid she didn't want to know.
"They call it peine forte et dure," Ford whispered. "Prisoners who refuse to plead are stripped and laid on their backs, a wooden plank placed upon them and piled with stones."
"Stones?" It was even worse than she'd imagined. Salty blood flowed into her mouth, and she realized she was chewing the inside of her cheek.
"Yes, stones." Ford's fingers tightened around hers. "Three hundred pounds or more. And they add another fifty pounds every half-hour until the man agrees to plead."
"The press! The press! The press!"
They couldn't. They couldn't do that to an ill man. How could this mob demand such a thing? What kind of barbarous riffraff were they?
"The press! The press! The press!"
"Silence!" The clerk's bellow rattled the very air, and the chant abruptly cut off.
Soft rain pattered in the sudden stillness as he looked to the man in red robes.
"Guilty," the judge declared, doubtless thinking his decision merciful since the prisoner was too weak to plead.
Ford's hand squeezed Kendra's so tightly, it was a wonder her bones didn't snap. He succeeded in quelling her outcry. But inside, every fiber of her being was howling.
Though Trick had been spared the press, she had no doubt what the sentence would be for a highwayman when she'd seen another man sent to the gallows for stealing a piece of fruit.
"Death by hanging." The judge banged his gavel. "Tomorrow at noon."
Trick's gaze remained on hers, his eyes imploring. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Her fingers worried the amber bracelet, and she could see in his face that he noticed. A single tear welled and rolled down his cheek, making her own tears flow faster.
Suddenly he looked away and started scraping with a fingernail at one of the crusty scabs on his wrist.
Another queue of accused prisoners were brought clanking into the dock, and Trick's group started moving out. She watched in a haze of pain as he drew a red-tipped finger across the crumpled paper in his other hand.
"He's writing something," she whispered in horror to Ford. "He's trying to write something. In blood."
His hand with the paper shaking, he reached it toward her as he was dragged by. She pressed against the rail, straining to get closer, their fingers almost touching. She moaned when he was jerked back, the look in his eyes anguished but unreadable.
Seconds later, he was tugged from the chamber and out of sight.
"He's ill," she sobbed, tears running freely down her face to mix with the miserable cold rain. "He was trying to tell me something, wasn't he?"
"He was too weak." Ford wiped her cheeks. "There's nothing you can do about it now."
"He tried to give me a message in blood." Her eyes burned and her heart was cracking. The man had only preyed on Puritans—the real criminals in her eyes—and for the good of orphan children. No matter that he was a liar and an adulterer, he didn't deserve to die.
She leaned far over the rail and shouted to the guard who was closing the gate. "Where are they being taken?"
"Newgate," the man said as the iron bars banged shut.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
"Kendra, you cannot go to Newgate." At the Chase town house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Jason pushed her onto the drawing room's burgundy brocade couch and handed her a large goblet of Rhenish wine. "It's a hellhouse. And there's nothing you can do for him anyway."
"I must see him." Maybe she could sneak him out. At least she could say good-bye. "I'm going." She set down the wine and rose.
He took her by the shoulders, his bright green gaze determined. "You cannot go."
Equally determined, she wrenched from his grasp. "You cannot stop me."
"We'll go to King Charles," Ford said.
She whirled to him. "What?"
"We'll go to Charles and ask for a pardon."
Hope fluttered in her chest. "Could...could that work?"
He shrugged. "It's certainly within his power. I saw him pardon Swift Nicks."
"Who?" Her legs feeling weak, she dropped back onto the couch.
"The infamous highwayman, Jack Nevison." Ford began pacing. "Early one morn he robbed a fellow in Kent who recognized him and threatened to turn him in. To give himself an alibi, he rode for York, arriving the same evening—"
"Impossible," she burst out, never mind that she didn't care to hear this since it had nothing to do with Trick. The ride to York took at least four days, more likely a week.
"Apparently not impossible when his life was at risk. He had friends at the taverns all along the Great North Road who supplied him with a fresh horse every hour. When he arrived in the town that evening, he hurried to the bowling green, in time to play a game of bowls with the mayor and other city functionaries. When he was brought to trial later, no less than six dignitaries could honestly swear he'd been in York that day, not Kent."
"Then Charles had no need to pardon him."
"But he had past crimes. The tale made the London rounds, and when Charles heard it, he commanded Nevison to court to tell the story himself. The king laughed until tears came to his eyes and then dismissed him with a signed and sealed pardon for all his prior misdeeds. I'll never forget it. So you can see that Charles can be prevailed upon under the right circumstances."
"Regardless of whether our merry monarch might be swayed by a bit of humor," Kendra said, "you have no knee-slapping story to tell him. There's nothing funny about Trick's situation."
"True," Jason admitted. "But perhaps when he hears only Puritans were robbed, it will soften his heart."
"Possible," Ford said. "And let's not forget that he knows and likes Trick as the Duke of Amberley."
"And Trick just brought him all that treasure." Kendra grasped at a wisp of hope. "But are you really willing to bring all of this up? Admit that my husband and the Black Highwayman are one and the same?"
"We'll do whatever it takes," Jason said. "Considering the alternative, I hardly think Trick will care that the Caldwell name is tarnished."
"And our name?" Trick's life took precedence for her—but he was her husband, not theirs.
Yet their expressions told her, unquestionably, they felt the same. Which melted whatever resentment was left in her heart.
"Thank you," she said softly, knowing they were right. Not only about this, but about how she always jumped to conclusions without giving them the benefit of the doubt. "I know you married me to Trick with the best of intentions, and I shouldn't have blamed you for his lies." She drew a calming breath. "I'm sorry I got angry. It won't happen again, I promise."
Jason released a choked laugh. "Of course it will happen again. We're family
."
Ford's blue eyes twinkled. "Besides, those times when you storm off not speaking to us are the only peace and quiet we get around here."
"We're your brothers," Jason said, "and we'll always be here for you to lean on."
"And abuse," Ford added with a smile. "That's part of our being family, too."
Once she'd told Trick something similar. Her eyes flooded at the memory. "But I'm going to try to do better anyway. I love you both."
"We never doubted it," Jason told her. "Shall we go ask for that pardon?"
"It cannot hurt to ask," she said with a sigh.
No matter that the Chases and Trick were all intimates of Charles, she had little confidence they'd get him to pardon another infamous highwayman. One prank on that order made for a rollicking good story—he might feel that twice would make him look like a man with no care for his subjects' welfare. Appearances counted in politics.
Besides, the king might not even be at Whitehall for all they knew.
But they had to try. She began to rise. "Let's go ask now. I have my doubts this will work, but the sooner we find out, the better. Trick is ill."
"You're staying here." The gentle, forgiving smile on Jason's face disappeared as he pushed her down to the couch and shoved the wine back into her hands. "Women are rarely granted audiences, as you're well aware, unless they take place in the Royal Bedchamber. Just sit tight, and we'll be back before you know it."
When her brothers left, Kendra was still wearing her disguise, and she was still determined to see Trick. Having heard that gaolers were fond of bribes, she pocketed some coins and slipped out into Lincoln's Inn Fields to hail a hackney cab.
On the bumpy ride to Newgate, she wondered what she could say to him. Though she was still furious at his lies and infidelity, a man at death's door deserved some peace of mind.
Then the cab jolted and she heard his voice.
I'm sorry, leannan, but there are things I cannot tell you. You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me...
A surge of panic overwhelmed her.
Could it be she'd misjudged her husband as badly as she had her brothers? Had she jumped to conclusions there, too?
Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) Page 30