William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

moments before court was in session. The stated time had been precise. He preceded it by two minutes exactly.
    “Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” the clerk said stiffly. “If you will come this way, sir, I’ll see if you can speak with the accused for a moment.” And without waiting to see if Rathbone agreed, he turned and led the way down the narrow, steep steps to the cells where prisoners were held before trial—or after, awaiting transport to a more permanent place of incarceration.
    He found Hester standing white-faced inside the small cell. She was dressed in her usual plain blue-gray whichshe used for working and she looked severe. The ordeal had told on her health. She had never been softly rounded, but now she was considerably thinner and her shoulders looked stiff and fragile and there were hollows in her cheeks and around her eyes. He imagined this was how she must have looked during the worst days of the war, hungry, cold, worked to exhaustion and racked with fear and pity.
    For a second, less than a second, a spark of hope lit in her eyes, then sight of his face made sense prevail. There would be no reprieve now. She was embarrassed that he should have seen such foolishness in her face.
    “G-good morning, Oliver,” she said almost steadily.
    How many more times would he be able to speak to her alone? Then they might part forever. There were all manner of things he wanted to say, emotional things, about caring for her, how intolerably he would miss her, the place in his life no one else would ever enter, let alone fill. He was uncertain exactly what that was, in a romantic sense, but he had no doubt at all about the love of friends, even its nature or its ineffable value.
    “Good morning,” he replied. “I have met Mr. Argyll, and I am very impressed with him. I think he will not fall short of his reputation. We may have every confidence in him.” How dismally formal, and so little of what was in his mind.
    “Do you think so?” she asked, watching his face.
    “I do. I imagine he has given you all the appropriate advice about your conduct and your replies to him or Mr. Gilfeather?” Perhaps it was best to speak of nothing but business. It would burden her unbearably to be emotional now.
    She smiled with an effort. “Yes. But I already knew it, from having heard you speak. I shall answer only as I am asked, speak clearly and respectfully, not stare too directly at anyone….”
    “Did he say that?”
    “No … but you would have, would you not?”
    His smile was uncertain, even painful.
    “I would—to you. Men do not like a woman who is too confident.”
    “I know.”
    “Yes …” He swallowed. “Of course you do.”
    “Don’t worry. I shall behave myself meekly,” she assured him. “And he also warned me what to expect the other witnesses to say, and that the crowd will be hostile.” She gave a shaky sigh. “I should have expected that, but it is a very unpleasant thought that they have already judged me guilty.”
    “We will change their minds,” he said fiercely. “They have not heard your evidence yet; they have only heard the prosecutor’s view of things.”
    “I—”
    But she got no further. There was a brisk knock on the door and it swung open to allow the warder in.
    “Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to be on your way. Got to take the prisoner up.”
    There was no time for anything further. Rathbone glanced at Hester once, forced a smile to his lips, then obeyed the orders and withdrew.
    The High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh was not like the Old Bailey, and Monk was reminded again with an ugly jolt that they were in a different land. Although united by many common bonds and governed by one queen and one parliament, the law of the land was different, the history and the heritage were different, and until very recently in a long national memory, they had been as often enemies as friends. The borders were drenched with the blood of both sides, and the Auld Alliance was not with England but with France, England’s foe down the centuries.
    The titles were different, the clothes marginally so, and there were not twelve men to the jury, but fifteen. Only the majestic implacability of the law was unchanged. The jury had been empaneled, the prisoner charged and the proceedings commenced.
    The prosecution was conducted by a huge, rambling man with a soft voice and flyaway gray hair. His face was benign and the lights shone on the bald crown of his head. Monk knew from