Chapter 6
Arthur didn't blink. He took a slow, heavy step forward out of the shadows, towering over the bailiff. The raw hatred radiating from Arthur’s posture was so convincing that even Rudge took half a step backward, his hand tightening reflexively around his cane.
“Tell your master,” Arthur growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence, “that if he wants me to sign his lies, he’d better come down here and put the pen in my hand himself. Otherwise, I’ll tell the bench exactly where those two hundred sovereigns came from.”
Rudge’s face darkened with ugly fury. “You insolent cur—”
“He will sign it, Mr. Rudge!” Julian broke in frantically, leaping to his feet and placing himself between Arthur and the bailiff, his voice high and shrill with panic. “I swear to you, he will sign it! I have spoken to him. He was merely overwhelmed by Finch’s aggression! Give us until the reconvening—I will make him see reason!”
Rudge sneered, looking down at Julian’s desperate, pleading face with unmasked disgust.
“You’d better, Vance,” Rudge said, adjusting the cuffs of his gray coat. “His Lordship has taken a great deal of trouble to keep you off the scaffold. But his patience is not infinite. Five minutes. Then the bailiffs bring you up.”
Rudge turned on his heel and strode out of the cell.
“Lock them,” Rudge commanded the turnkey outside. “And don't let them kill each other before the Chief Magistrate takes his seat. It would spoil His Lordship’s afternoon.”
The heavy iron door swung shut once more.
The deadbolt slammed home with a final, echoing crash.
As the sound of Rudge’s boots faded up the spiral staircase, Julian let out a long, ragged exhale. The terrified hysteria melted from his face instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.
He turned slowly to look at Arthur.
Arthur was standing by the stone wall, the bandaged wrist resting against his hip, a dark, wicked smirk spreading across his lips.
“Five minutes, Counselor,” Arthur whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark like polished amber. “Are you ready to give Lord Sterling his show?”
Julian reached into his waistcoat, his fingers closing around the cold iron key hidden deep in the lining of his coat—their only hidden weapon, and their most terrifying gamble.
“More than ready,” Julian said softly.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them one last time, and reached out. Arthur caught his hand, their fingers intertwining in a grip that felt as solid and unbreakable as iron.
Together, they turned toward the door, waiting for the bells to toll.
The iron bell in the high belfry struck two, its heavy, bronze chime reverberating straight down through the damp stone arches of the courthouse dungeons.
*Clang. Clang.*
Each stroke resonated in Julian’s chest like a hammer striking an anvil.
When the turnkey unlocked the cell door, Julian didn't wait for the pike’s rough nudge. He shoved past the guards with his barrister’s sleeves pulled tight over his wrists, his head lowered in a show of sulking, bitter misery. Behind him, Arthur dragged his boots across the flagstones, the iron chains between his wrists clinking with every heavy, sullen stride.
Up the winding stairwell they went, trading the clean, cold stench of cellar mold for the stifling, sour heat of the courtroom.
The gallery had doubled in density during the recess. The stench hit Julian first—wet wool, pipe smoke, cheap gin, and the hot, rancid breath of four hundred spectators squeezed shoulder to shoulder along the tiers. News had traveled fast through the alleys of Westminster: the disgraced barrister and his savage scout were tearing each other to shreds in front of the Chief Magistrate. Blood was in the water, and London had come to watch the feeding frenzy.
Julian took his place behind the defense table. His hands, though warmed only minutes before by Arthur’s skin, resumed their violent, fluttering tremor the moment he touched the mahogany rail. He pulled his notes toward him, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps that lifted the dark wool of his tabs.
Three yards away, separated by two armed bailiffs whose truncheons rested against their crossed belts, Arthur was shoved into the high oak dock. Arthur’s face was dark, mottled with flushed anger, his jaw set so hard that a vein pulsed violently against the side of his throat. He did not look at Julian. When Julian attempted to catch his eye, Arthur spat into the sawdust around his boots and turned his shoulder away in ostentatious contempt.
From the northern gallery box, the silver cane tapped once.
*Tuk.*
Julian’s eyes flicked upward for a fraction of a second. Lord Sterling sat back in his velvet armchair, one gloved hand resting casually upon the polished mahogany rail. Beside him stood Mr. Rudge, looking down at Julian with the heavy, bovine satisfaction of a butcher who had just inspected a steer in the pen. Sterling’s lips curled in a cool, patronizing smile. He raised two fingers in a microscopic gesture of warning—*follow the script, or hang.*
The rear draperies parted, and the bench filed in.
Chief Magistrate Vance looked even more withered than he had an hour prior, his crimson robes dwarfing his hunched frame as he dropped onto his high cushion. His rheumy eyes swept down upon the defense table with absolute, venomous irritation.
“The court is reconvened,” Vance rasped, rapping his chipped gavel once. “Mr. Vance. Before the recess, this chamber was subjected to an intolerable exhibition of brawling and recrimination. Have you conferred with your client? Or are we to expect another tavern brawl upon the King’s carpet?”
Julian rose immediately. His knees buckled slightly against the wood of his desk, forcing him to plant both palms flat on the papers before him to steady his weight. He cleared his throat twice, the sound dry and scraping.
“My Lord,” Julian began, his voice thin, carrying the high, reedy pitch of a man stretched to the absolute limit of his sanity. “I apologize without reservation for the earlier outburst. Captain Thorne has suffered immense physical hardship over the last three years. The ague contracted in the southern marshes has... clouded his memory of specific dates. However, after private consultation, the defense is prepared to proceed. We wish to establish the timeline of the Bramley dispatches through the Captain’s sworn testimony.”
“Indeed?” Sir Gerald Finch rose languidly from the Crown’s table, smoothing his immaculate black silk gown. His eyes glittered with predatory amusement. “The Crown has no objection to hearing whatever Captain Thorne remembers—provided he can remember it without threatening to strangle his own counsel.”
A ripple of cruel laughter skittered through the gallery.
“Silence!” Vance warned, glaring at the public benches before fixing Arthur with a stern, hawkish stare. “Captain Thorne. Step to the witness box. Bailiffs, escort him.”
The heavy iron grate of the dock swung open. Two guards gripped Arthur by the upper arms, marching him the four paces across the flagstones to the railed witness stand set to the left of the bench. Arthur shook them off with a savage jerk of his shoulders, planting his broad hands on the scarred cedar rail. He towered over the clerk who held up the leather-bound Bible.
