William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

didn’t protect your own grandson. You allowed him to be used as well. Why, Mrs. Carlyon? Why? Was your reputation really worth all that sacrifice, so many children’s terrified, shamed and pitiful lives?”
    She leaned forward over the rail, hate blazing in her eyes.
    “Yes! Yes, Mr. Rathbone, it was! What would you expect me to do? Betray him to public humiliation? Ruin a greatcareer: a man who taught others bravery in the face of the enemy, who went to battle with head high, never counting the odds against him. A man who inspired others to greatness—for what? An appetite? Men have appetites, they always have had. What was I to do—tell people?” Her voice was thick with passionate contempt. She utterly ignored the snarls and hisses behind her.
    “Tell whom? Who would have believed me? Who could I go to? A woman has no rights to her children, Mr. Rathbone. And no money. We belong to our husbands. We cannot even leave their houses without their permission, and he would never have given me that. Still less would he have allowed me to take my son.”
    The judge banged his gavel and called for order.
    Felicia’s voice was shrill with rage and bitterness. “Or would you have had me murder him—like Alexandra? Is that what you approve of? Every woman who suffers a betrayal or an indignity at her husband’s hands, or whose child is hurt, belittled or humiliated by his father, should murder him?”
    She leaned over the rail towards him, her voice strident, her face twisted. “Believe me, there are a lot of other cruelties. My husband was gentle with his son, spent time with him, never beat him or sent him to bed without food. He gave him a fine education and started him on a great career. He had the love and respect of the world. Would you have me forfeit all that by making a wild, vile accusation no one would have believed anyway? Or end up in the dock—and on the rope’s end—like her?”
    “Was there nothing in between, Mrs. Carlyon?” Rath-bone said very softly. “No more moderate course—nothing between condoning the abuse and murder?”
    She stood silent, gray-faced and suddenly very old.
    “Thank you,” he said with a bleak smile, a baring of the teeth. “That was my own conclusion too. Mr. Lovat-Smith?”
    There was a sigh around the room, a long expelling of breath.
    The jury looked exhausted.
    Lovat-Smith stood up slowly, as if he were now too tired to have any purpose in continuing. He walked over to thewitness box, regarding Felicia long and carefully, then lowered his eyes.
    “I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord.”
    “You are excused, Mrs. Carlyon,” the judge said coldly. He opened his mouth as if to add something, then changed his mind.
    Felicia came down the steps clumsily, like an old woman, and walked away towards the doors, followed by a silent and total condemnation.
    The judge looked at Rathbone.
    “Have you any further evidence to call, Mr. Rathbone?”
    “I would like to recall Cassian Carlyon, my lord, if you please?”
    “Is it necessary, Mr. Rathbone? You have proved your point.”
    “Not all of it, my lord. This child was abused by his father, and his grandfather, and by one other. I believe we must know who that other man was as well.”
    “If you can discover that, Mr. Rathbone, please do so. But I shall prevent you the moment you cause the child unnecessary distress. Do I make myself plain?”
    “Yes, my lord, quite plain.”
    Cassian was recalled, small and pale, but again entirely composed.
    Rathbone stepped forward.
    “Cassian—your grandmother has just given evidence which makes it quite clear that your grandfather also abused you in the same manner. We do not need to ask you to testify on that point. However there was one other man, and we need to know who he is.”
    “No sir, I cannot tell you.”
    “I understand your reasons.” Rathbone fished in his pocket and brought out an elegant quill knife with a black-enameled handle. He held it up. “Do you have a quill knife, something like this?”
    Cassian stared at it, a pink flush staining his cheeks.
    Hester glanced up at the gallery and saw Peverell look puzzled, but no more.
    “Remember the importance of the truth,” Rathbone warned. “Do you have such a knife?”
    “Yes sir,” Cassian answered uncertainly.
    “And perhaps a watch fob? A gold one, with the scales of justice on it?”
    Cassian swallowed. “Yes sir.”
    Rathbone pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket