William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

so.”
    He lowered his voice a little. “Many women long desperately to have a child, and when they do not have one, they put a brave face to the world and hide their grief by pretending it is not there. It is a very private and deeply personal affliction. Why should anyone, even a princess, parade it for the public to see, or to pity?”
    Rolf said with tense, almost sibilant bitterness, “Gisela’s barrenness is of her own choosing. Do not ask me how I know it!”
    “I must ask you,” Rathbone insisted. “It is a harsh charge, Count Lansdorff. You cannot expect the court, or anyone, to believe you unless you can substantiate it!” He smiled a trifle wryly at the irony.
    Rolf remained silent.
    Harvester rose to his feet, his face flushed. “My lord … this is iniquitous! I …”
    “Yes, Mr. Harvester,” the judge said quietly. “Count Lansdorff, you will either retract your remarks about the Princess Gisela, and admit them to be untrue, or you will explain your grounds for making them and allow the court to decide whether they believe you or not.”
    Rolf stood to attention again, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He looked beyond Rathbone and the plaintiff’sand defendant’s tables to somewhere in the gallery, and without thinking, Rathbone turned and looked also. The judge followed Rolf’s eyes, and the jury swiveled to stare.
    Rathbone saw Hester, and next to her a young man in a wheelchair, his fair brown hair catching the light. Behind him, also in the aisle, were an older man and woman of unusually handsome appearance. Presumably, from the way they regarded him, they were his parents. This was the patient Hester had spoken of. She had said they were from Felzburg. It was not unnatural they should feel compelled to come to the trial, after what the newspapers had said.
    Rathbone turned back to the witness stand.
    “Count Lansdorff?”
    “Gisela is not barren,” Rolf said between his teeth. “She had a child from an illicit affair many years before she married Friedrich—”
    There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room so sharp it was a hiss. Harvester shot to his feet, then found he had no idea what to say. Beside him, Gisela was as white as paper.
    One of the jurors coughed and choked.
    Rathbone was too stunned to speak.
    “She did not want it,” Rolf went on, his voice stinging with contempt. “She wanted to get rid of it, abort it—” Again he was forced to stop by the noise in the courtroom. The gallery erupted in anger, revulsion and distress. A woman screamed. Someone called out curses, random, indiscriminate.
    The judge banged his gavel, his eyes puckered with distress.
    Harvester looked as if he had been struck in the face.
    Rolf’s voice, harsh and loud, cut across them all.
    “But the father wanted the child, and told her he would expose her if she destroyed it, but if she bore it, alive, he would take it and love it.”
    There was sobbing in the gallery.
    The jurors were ashen-faced.
    “She gave birth to a son,” Rolf said. “The father took it. Hestruggled for a year to care for the boy himself, then he fell in love with a woman of his own rank and station, a woman of gentleness and nobility who was prepared to raise the boy as her own. Conceivably, the boy has never known he was not hers.”
    Rathbone had to clear his throat before he could find his voice.
    “Can you prove that, Count Lansdorff? These are terrible charges.”
    “Of course!” Rolf’s lips curled in scorn. “Do you imagine I would make them from the witness stand if I could not? Zorah Rostova may be a fool … but I am not!
    “Her second child was not so fortunate,” he continued, his voice like breaking ice. “She conceived to Friedrich, and this one she succeeded in aborting herself. Apparently, she had some knowledge of herbs. It is an art some women choose to cultivate—for health or cosmetic reasons, among others. And to concoct aphrodisiacs or procure abortions. She was ill after this, and was attended for a short time by a doctor. I do not know if you can force him to testify, but he would not lie to you under oath. The matter distressed him profoundly.” His face was contorted with emotion. “But if his profession seals his tongue, ask Florent Barberini. He will swear to it, if you press him. He has no such binding loyalties.” He stopped abruptly.
    Rathbone had no alternative. The court was hanging on a breath.
    “But the child you say she bore, Count