Authors: Jennifer Horsman
"Well." Vincent drew a deep breath and held it, pausing as he desperately tried not to laugh. Not now. "At last I feel I understand the 'extraordinary' circumstances here. So…Very well…" He stopped again and bit his lip, nearly overcome by the humor of it. A wild kind of mirth rose in his chest; he could not control it. A wave of his hand motioned to Bogo to call Miles Hartman back, while he, with tremendous effort, tried to recover.
No man had ever been so tempted.
"Sir Miles Hartman." A page called the man back inside. He came at once, his expression as far from contriteness as the moon from the sun. Spitting mad, he stared at Roshelle.
Roshelle did not notice. She reached a trembling hand into her apron pocket, removing a small, perfectly round black stone. Papillion's jest of a sorcerer's stone, like rosary beads to the devout; it was her good-luck charm. Though now that the ax would fall, she needed a good deal more than luck. She needed a miracle.
Leaning back in his chair, and with hands resting behind his head, Vincent considered her accuser. "So, Miles Hartman, we have now heard both your accusation of Countess Roshelle Marie St. Lille for the murder of my brother, Lord Edward, and the lady's defense. Now, seeing as you are a good Englishman and she is French, seeing as you had served my brother in the, the . . . where was it, Bogo?"
Bogo read from a list: "The campaign of Riveriere, where the honorable soldier Miles Hartman was laid to bed with dysentery through no fault of his own; then the said soldier accompanied Edward on a minor expedition to Dublin, alas unsuccessful through no fault of his own, before again accompanying his Lord Edward here to Reales—"
"Yes, yes," Vincent interrupted impatiently. "The said Miles Hartman served my brother as well as any." His pause filled with an unpleasant contemplation of just what this probably meant. "Now you have sworn the murder of my brother was premeditated, done with malice of forethought, am I not right?"
"Aye, 'tis what I said."
"Ah, there it is—our problem."
"What problem is that, your Grace?"
"The countess claims differently. She has sworn under oath, too."
"Well, she be full of falsehoods! To save herself—"
"Aye, aye, so you say, and, well, if it were up to me to arbitrate truth in these matters, things would no doubt be different. However, the king's law does not leave it up to me, does it, Bogo?"
"No, your Grace, I'm afraid it does not."
"And what law stipulates thus?"
"Here 'tis. King's law two hundred and fifty-seven."
Roshelle stared with mounting confusion. What madness was going on here? Bogo le Wyse had peered into a Bible! And upon hearing this, the men of the duke's personal guard erupted with sudden groans just as the knight Bryce leaped up to say, "Not the king's law two hundred and fifty-seven! God have mercy! I will never forget when poor old Samuelson went that way, and even though he was miraculously saved, he died of pneumonia that very week—"
"Aye, aye," Vincent agreed, and with irritation again, as if taxed by the unpleasant memory of a man named Samuelson and his unfortunate demise. "While it is true that many tragedies are bought by obeying the king's law, all wise men would benefit from a brief reflection of how many more tragedies would result if we did not."
"Besides," Bogo added, "life itself is fraught with dangers."
"Prudent words." Vincent nodded solemnly. "So! The king's law requires all sentences involving a personage of import, title or landed gentry to be decided by a higher authority."
Roshelle was not the only one bewildered by these words. Confusion marked Miles Hartman's features, then even more as he watched the group of guards mumbling and shaking their heads, gracing him with plainly sympathetic looks. He knew only one man with a higher authority and, surprised, he asked: "Will the matter go before the king?"
"Higher than that. Who is the very highest authority, the most capable discerner of truth in all the world and beyond? In whose judgment does all mere mortal fates rest?"
Miles Hartman had to think the question through. "God?"
"Aye." Vincent appeared pleased with the man's wits. "You do believe God sides with truth, do you not?"
Miles shifted nervously.
"Well?"
"Oh, aye."
"Of course you do. So on the morrow we shall adjourn to the river's edge, where you, Miles Hartman, will jump into the river and ask God to verify the veracity of your testimony by sparing you a drowning. Let us set our time for morn— "
Shock made Miles gasp. "What?" His eyes frantically searched the hall in disbelief, and fear altered his face. "Milord, I, I cannot jump into river water—"
"Why not?"
"I do not know how to stay afloat in water! I am loath to get near water! Why, crossing the Channel was nearly my end, as it were—"
"Do not concern yourself with such trifles, my good man. You have God on your side," Vincent assured him, smiling hugely. "Do you think God would let you drown if it is a test of truth, for which He stands in judgment?"
"Well ... I, I cannot rightly say—"
"Bogo, do not all theologians agree that God is the absolute arbitrator of truth?"
"Aye, all theologians are in agreement on that point, milord."
"There you have it," Vincent said, as if that settled the matter. "You have nothing to fear. If you are telling the truth, God will spare your life. Unless, why, you are telling the truth, are you not?"
Miles Hartman rocked back on his boots, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, his dark gaze searching the knights as if for guidance. None came forth. "I, ah . . . oh, God, I-"
"Oh, no." Vincent appeared solemn, save for his gaze. "Bogo, I believe I detect a hint of hesitation. You'd best come clean with it, Miles Hartman, at least before you hit the cold water of the river.''
"Deep water, too, milord," Bogo mentioned. "Or so I have heard."
"Quite a fierce current as well," Wilhelm added gravely. "The water spaniels nearly went under the day we came..."
Miles's gaze shot to Wilhelm, whose voice tapered off with a discouraging shake of his head. "I. . .1 was telling the truth . . . mostly."
"Not good enough, Miles Hartman." Vincent shook his head. "Most of the truth suggests truth's opposite, does it not, Bogo?"
"Aye, milord. The question now is what part of your accusation might be wanting more of the truth."
Perspiration marked the man's brow; his gaze remained fixed on the floor; his mind, on drowning. "I… I'm not perfectly sure about the weapon she used." Then he whispered, "If there was a weapon—"
"So the lady had no weapon," Bogo said triumphantly, knowing his part well from other, remarkably similar experiences. "Which, I believe, changes much of your testimony. It seems impossible that the lady waited to attack Edward—if she held no weapon and considering the fact that a woman's strength is useless against a man's. Therefore, there could be no premeditation. Which means it is also probable that you and the other guards encountered Edward as she has said, when Edward was carrying her down the stairs bent upon harming her person—harming that no doubt deserves the harsh name raping!" The thunder of Bogo's unnaturally deep voice somehow made it seem as if Miles Hartman had done the deed. "And therefore Edward died as a result of falling—due to no fault of the accused. Is that right?"
With wide, shocked eyes, Roshelle held her breath.
Miles Hartman's pause filled with the sudden understanding that Roshelle Marie St. Lille would not be punished. Yet, as unpleasant as that was, it rested against the idea of the cold, deep waters of the river Reales.
Bogo's deep voice thundered again. "Is that not right, Miles Hartman?"
"Aye, aye!"
Silence formed, everyone waiting for Vincent to pass the verdict. "Let the record show that Miles Hartman reneges on his damning testimony against the accused Lady Roshelle Marie St. Lille, admitting in the presence of all that he lied, that he now corroborates the testimony of the lady. For all to witness. Miles Hartman is judged guilty of perjury, a high crime. Considering the unusual circumstances, I am inclined toward leniency in my sentencing in this matter. I dismiss Miles Hartman without pay from my service, yet with a mind on justice, I afford him the exact sum required for passage back across the Channel. And may God, acting as absolute arbitrator not just of truth but also of justice, orchestrate a fierce and treacherous storm for the day of said crossing." The men saw the humor and chuckled. "Guards," Vincent concluded, "if you would see the perjurer to the gates."
The guards rushed up to escort the man out as Vincent turned his gaze at last to Roshelle. She, too, stared at the tips of her boots, hardly able to believe these past minutes of her life, let alone understand how or why it had happened. To be given mercy by the English, a mercy she had never known them to exercise. There must be a catch or a trick. Yet there was not.
All eyes turned to where she stood awaiting Vincent's adjudication, but he-paused, and chuckled. "Never have I enjoyed a trial more. It was like listening to a well-writ comedy of the absurd, it was." The men heartily agreed, quieting as Vincent continued. "As for Countess Roshelle de la Nevers of Reales, I find her most certainly and surprisingly innocent."
The men laughed loudly and Cisely cried out for joy before falling into Roshelle's arms. Roshelle was too stunned to return the embrace.
"As to what that innocence inspires in a man," Vincent's eyes filled with mischief and humor. "Well, some things are better left unsaid after all."
The men rose with laughter and backslapping, the happy conclusion of a job well done. Even Henry would not be so mad now. Bogo was telling Wilhelm that the trial was indeed an amusing tale, perhaps worthy of repeating for a bored audience on a rainy night, save for the fact that it was too farfetched. "And though all the world knows of Frenchmen's ridiculously exaggerated vanities, no one, but no one, would ever believe them quite this moronic."
The room started spinning. She was free! Free! Death must wear a solemn mask of defeat, for she had escaped its grasping hand today! She wanted to sing and shout and spin around and around like a child's top...
Abruptly, she panicked. The duke was full of cruel capriciousness, was he not? He might see her happiness and take it away! With eyes downcast, yet her heart hammering with a giddy kind of joy, she moved quickly to the doors. Cisely followed.
But she stopped. What was she thinking of? Just because he had spared her, would he do the same for her guards? Dear Lord, she must ask him! She must beg—
"Ah ... My Grace?"
All this time Vincent's gaze had never strayed. "Hmm," he said, distracted. Then he guessed she wanted to thank him. "Ah! Now shall I hear your gratitude for my hand that served justice so well?"
The words surprised her. "Well, no," she said before she could think better of it. "I deserve nothing less. Like my people. However, it is to your sense of justice that I put the question: what of my guards? Shall they be free as well?"
"Aye," he said, the girl's boldness making him chuckle. "They are free as well."
Merciful heavens! Roshelle squeezed Cisely's hand tightly, trying not to let her joy and relief show too much, still wary that he might enjoy snatching it away. She nodded and started to turn again, but a low grumble of disapproval rose from the knights.
"My Grace.'' Bryce stood to address the duke formally. "Your generosity stretches too far. 'Tis one thing to set this beautiful maid of Reales free, especially seeing as you be. . ." He looked to the men, then to Roshelle herself, and with a smile he said, "Well, cock-led in the matter. Not that any man be faultin' you for that!" The men chuckled briefly, Bryce's smile vanishing as he said the last. "But 'tis quite another thing to let the French guards go—.
"Aye! They must be made to pay the price of rebellion!"
"Aye-"
Vincent silenced his men with his hand and, shaking his head, said, "Oh, no. I will fault no man for foolishly chasing the girl to hell—indeed when I look at her"—and he was—"their loyalty to her misguided passions is too easily grasped."
Roshelle had not moved. A visible shiver shook from her spine up. Like a premonition. "More tempting than any woman I have known..." The bold comments, the way he stared, bode ill; he courted disaster. She welcomed his attention much as a lamb welcomes the attention of a butcher, only she would be the butcher and he the slaughtered lamb. The thought made the room grow hot. She heard Cisely's quick, shallow breaths and she knew if she turned to look, she would see Cisely biting her lip and wringing her hands.