Chapter 2
Finch turned, pointing a long, pale finger directly at Julian’s desk.
“A convenient fiction, My Lords. An eleventh-hour forgery designed to insult the intelligence of this court!”
Julian cleared his throat, forcing the tremor out of his voice, and stepped forward to the rail. “My Lord Justice, the affidavit is no fiction. It bears the official seal of the Western Command and is countersigned by witnesses who saw both Captain Thorne and myself at the post house in Bramley on the night in question.”
“Witnesses procured by who, Mr. Vance?” Finch sneered. “Or should I say, procured by your illustrious benefactor, who sits so comfortably above us today?”
Every head in the room pivoted upward toward the gallery box. Lord Sterling remained perfectly motionless, his hands folded over the silver wolf’s head of his cane, an indulgent, faintly disappointed smirk curling his thin lips. He looked like an aristocrat watching an incompetent hound miss a hare.
Julian’s heart battered against his ribs. *Damn him.* Sterling had promised that Finch was paid off. Sterling had sworn the Crown’s cross-examination would be a mere formality to satisfy the public appetite before an acquittal was handed down.
“The document stands on its own merits, Sir Gerald,” Julian countered, clutching the rail until the wood bruised his palms. “It bears Captain Thorne’s signature, sworn under penalty of perjury. He was the officer commanding the escort. He can attest to its validity.”
Julian turned slightly, his gaze locking with Arthur’s. “Captain Thorne. Please confirm to the court your signature upon the Bramley deposition.”
Arthur did not move for several agonizing seconds.
The courtroom fell deathly silent. The only sound was the scratching of the clerk’s pen and the heavy rain beginning to lash against the high stained-glass windows.
Julian’s breath stopped. *Arthur, please. Do not ruin this. Not now.*
Slowly, Arthur stepped to the edge of the dock. His eyes, dark and turbulent, swept over Julian’s face with what looked like pure disgust.
“I cannot confirm it,” Arthur said clearly.
The gallery erupted. Justice Vance pounded his wooden gavel with furious, rattling thumps. “Silence! Silence in the court!”
Julian spun around, his face draining of whatever color remained. “Arthur—Captain Thorne, what are you saying?” he gasped, loud enough to cut through the din. “You reviewed the document not ten minutes ago!”
“I reviewed a pack of lies scribbled by a coward trying to save his own skin,” Arthur barked, his voice ringing like a brass horn through the hall. He leaned over the rail toward the magistrates, his face contorted in bitter fury. “Look at the bottom of the page, My Lords! The ink isn’t even dry! He pushed the pen into my hand while you were walking in! He told me to sign it or hang!”
“That is an outrageous falsehood!” Julian cried, stepping toward Arthur, his voice cracking with panic. He seized the edge of the dock, his body trembling violently. “He is delirious, My Lord! The prisoner has suffered from swamp ague since the campaign—his mind wanders under pressure!”
“My mind is clearer than it has been in three years!” Arthur roared, slamming both hands down on the mahogany partition, inches from Julian’s face. The physical violence in Arthur’s posture was so intense that two bailiffs drew their batons and closed in. “You sold out our boys in the marsh, Julian! You took Sterling’s coin then, and you’re taking it now to write us an alibi that wouldn’t fool a blind stable boy!”
“Silence! Both of you!” Justice Vance shrieked, his face turning the color of a bruised plum. “Bailiffs! Restrain the prisoners!”
In the gallery, Lord Sterling leaned forward, his silver cane twitching once against the railing. For the first time, a hairline fracture appeared in Sterling’s cool, patronizing mask. His pale eyes narrowed to slits, fixed squarely upon Julian’s unraveling composure.
Julian felt the room spinning. He turned back to the bench, clutching the ink-smeared parchment against his chest like a shield. “My Lord... My Lord, I beg for a brief adjournment. My client—my co-defendant is not in a fit mental state to enter testimony. The pressure of these false charges has shattered his reason—”
“Shattered his reason, or cleared his conscience?” Sir Gerald Finch interjected, his smile broadening into a triumphant sneer. Finch stepped between Julian and the bench, addressing the magistrates with theatrical relish. “My Lords, you see it before your very eyes! The defense is cannibalizing itself! The scout refuses to endorse the barrister’s forged lifeline! If the signature is disputed by the very man alleged to have written it, the affidavit is null, void, and an act of contempt of the highest order!”
“I didn't dispute the signature, Finch, I disputed the *truth* of it!” Arthur spat from behind the bailiffs’ crossed batons. “Julian drafted it! He paid a clerk in the Shambles three crowns to mimic the Western Command stamp!”
“You miserable bastard!” Julian shouted, lunging forward as if to strike Arthur across the rail.
The bailiff grabbed Julian by the shoulder, shoving him back against the defense table. Papers scattered across the floor, ink pots rattled, and the gallery screamed with delight at the spectacle. Noble ladies lifted their opera glasses; clerks stood on benches to watch the disgraced barrister and his savage scout tear each other apart.
“Enough!” Justice Vance slammed his gavel down so hard the head chipped against the block. “This court will not be turned into a dog-fighting pit! Mr. Vance, you have presented a document of questionable provenance, disavowed by your own co-defendant upon the public record!”
“My Lord, if I may just cross-examine—” Julian pleaded, his hair falling into his eyes, his voice choked with humiliated tears. He looked utterly broken, a fallen scholar brought to his knees by the brutish insolence of the soldier he had tried to rescue.
“You will cross-examine no one until this matter is sorted!” Vance barked. “The court orders an immediate recess of one hour. The prisoners will be removed to the subterranean holding cells under separate guard. Let them cool their tempers in the dark.”
“My Lord—” Finch began.
“One hour, Sir Gerald!” Vance snapped, gathering his scarlet skirts as he rose. “And when we reconvene, Mr. Vance had better produce a credible explanation for this disgraceful display, or I shall commit them both to Newgate without bail before the afternoon bells strike three!”
“All rise!” the crier shouted.
The magistrates filed out through the rear curtain. The courtroom dissolved into an uproar of shouting, whispering, and shuffling boots.
Julian stood frozen beside the upturned table, his chest heaving, his dark robe askew. He looked up toward the gallery.
Lord Sterling was standing. His silver-headed cane was clutched in white-knuckled fingers. The peer did not look amused anymore. He looked down at Julian with a gaze of frigid, venomous rage—a master whose prize hounds had just snapped at their own leads and ruined the hunt before his noble guests. Sterling turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadowed corridor behind the private boxes.
“Move, traitor,” a bailiff grunted, shoving Julian toward the narrow stone staircase that led down into the courthouse dungeons.
Across the enclosure, Arthur was being wrestled toward the same staircase by two burly guards. His hands were pinned behind him, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. As they reached the threshold of the dark stairs, Arthur looked back over his shoulder.
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