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“Hear me out just one moment, my Lord, for we have met before.” He spoke hurriedly, watching the hand that snaked upward to beckon for assistance to usher Hugh away. “Yes, under very unusual circumstances. Do you not remember it?”
Lord Coulson’s eyes slid upward to Hugh’s face, assessing him, clearly trying to place him.
“You are mistaken. We have not met.” His tone was suspicious. “Do you not think I know all the tricks there are? My word is law, and I cannot be bought. I could have you thrown in jail.”
“You must do what you know is right. Lord Cavanaugh—Mr Wentworth who was—is not being honest in his account of what happened the night his cousin was murdered.”
Lord Coulson sighed. “We have endured two long sitting days to ensure that there can be no conjecture on that score. Now you’ve had your time. Leave.”
“Don’t you wish to know who I am?”
Lord Coulson stiffened and he turned, his nose raised to the air. Hugh shot out a hand to grip his arm, and instantly Lord Coulson swatted it away; face mottled with indignation.
“In the cushions at Mrs Plumb’s last night. I was the man invited in to observe your antics.” Hugh spoke rapidly, pausing to watch the magistrate turn the color of thin gruel. Triumphantly, he went on, “Your illegal antics, my Lord, and I have witnesses who were at the peephole.”
“The hole was shuttered.” Lord Coulson spoke quickly and without thinking, for no sooner were the words out than he realized his error.
“The hole which I slid open as I left.” Hugh was fabricating this last though there was no proof either way. Lord Coulson would have to decide whether to take him at his word. He certainly was taking a moment to decide his next move.
Cornered, he began to walk away. Hugh was confused until he realized Lord Coulson was moving to somewhere they could speak in private.
“What do you want?” the older man hissed, careful to keep his features under control as he pretended to consult a paper in his hand.
“The prisoner’s freedom.”
“That’s not possible.”
“She’s not guilty. You know that.”
Snake eyes stared out from beneath Lord Coulson’s wig. “There’s nothing I can do.” His words sounded dead.
“All London shall know in the morning what you are guilty of, sir.” Hugh nearly spat the words. “Then we shall see what justice is really about.”
“I can’t do it else Lord Cavanaugh will exact his own pound of flesh. I’m in an impossible situation. It flies in the face of every bit of testimony heard to exonerate the prisoner.”
“You should have thought of that before you played in your cushiony dell with such inappropriate bedfellows.”
Lord Coulson tapped his fingers on the document he was holding. Finally, he said, “There is but one concession I can make.”
Hugh stilled. He put his head closer to Lord Coulson’s and did not draw back from his foetid breath. For though unpalatable, what he offered was better than Phoebe’s assured death.
Ravens were common enough, but the ravens at the tower were huge. After days of being unable to eat, Phoebe’s stomach seemed to have folded in on itself. She wondered if she would make a tasty morsel for the flesh-eating birds if she were allowed to wander the battlements or gardens.
No point in such foolishness, she thought as she was led onto the waiting barge.
For a moment, Phoebe just stood on the deck, staring out across the mud and silt and the detritus left by the tide; wondering how soon before she would hear carpenters making the gallows.
“Reckon me old lady’d be right impressed wiv the week’s sport. A feeble woman killin’ a man. An’ then gettin’ her jest desserts.” One of the prison guards laughed loudly as he scratched at a sore on his cheek before picking up his oars. “The beautiful assassin they calls yer.” He winked at his friend. “Reckon no one would know if we ‘ad us a piece of the beautiful assassin afore she’s an assassin an’ beautiful no more, if yer gets me meanin’.”
Again they both guffawed, and Phoebe put her head over the side of the barge, fearing she was about to be sick.
“Wait! One minute before you push off!”
They turned at the shout of a young man dressed in the robes of a court official. He strode down the embankment and pushed a document into the hands of the closest of the two prison guards, stabbing at a signature and a wax seal.
“You’re to surrender the prisoner into my care. I shall accompany her on her final journey downstream.”
The guards exchanged looks of surprise, but made no objection as the man put his hand on Phoebe’s shoulder after he’d stepped into the boat. “Sir Gawain at your service, my Lady.”
