William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

looked at him gravely. “Nasty business,” he said with a very faint smile which did not reach his eyes. They were steady, clear and cold. “I hope you are going to be able to handle it with discretion. Can’t predict a woman like that. Have to tread very warily. Can’t get her to withdraw, I suppose?”
    “No sir,” Rathbone confessed. “I’ve tried every argument I can think of.”
    “Most unfortunate.” The Lord Chancellor frowned. The steward brought the brandy, and he thanked him for it. Rathbone took his. It could have been cold tea for any pleasure he had in it. “Most unfortunate,” the Lord Chancellor repeated, sipping at the balloon glass in his hands and then continuing towarm the liquid and savor its aroma. “Still, no doubt you have it all in control.”
    “Yes, naturally,” Rathbone lied. No point in admitting defeat before it was inevitable.
    “Indeed.” The Lord Chancellor was apparently not so easily satisfied. “I trust you have some means of preventing her from making any further ill-considered remarks in open court? You must find some way of convincing her not only that she has nothing to gain, but that she still has something to lose.” He regarded Rathbone closely.
    There was no avoiding a reply, and it must be specific.
    “She is most concerned in the future of her country,” he said with assurance. “She will not do anything which will further jeopardize its struggle to retain independence.”
    “I do not find that of any particular comfort, Sir Oliver,” the Lord Chancellor said grimly.
    Rathbone hesitated. He had had it in mind that he should at least prevent Zorah from implicating Queen Ulrike, either directly or indirectly. But if the Lord Chancellor had not thought of that disaster, he would not put it into his way,
    “I shall persuade her certain charges or insinuations would be against her country’s welfare,” Rathbone replied.
    “Will you,” the Lord Chancellor said doubtfully.
    Rathbone smiled.
    The Lord Chancellor smiled back bleakly and finished his brandy.
    His words were echoing in Rathbone’s head the following day when the trial began. It was expected to be the slander case of the century, and long before the judge called the court to order, the benches were packed and there was not even room to stand at the back. The ushers had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping the aisles sufficiently clear to avoid hazard to safety.
    Before entering the courtroom, Rathbone tried one last time to persuade Zorah to withdraw.
    “It is not too late,” he said urgently. “You can still admit you were overcome by grief and spoke without due thought.”
    “I am not overcome,” she said with a self-mocking smile. “I spoke after very careful thought indeed, and I meant what I said.” She was dressed in tawny reds and browns. Her jacket was beautifully tailored to her slender shoulders and straight back, and the skirt swept out in an unbroken line over its hoops. Her attire was devastatingly unsuitable for the occasion. She did not look remotely penitent or consumed by grief. She looked magnificent.
    “I am going into battle without weapons or armor.” He heard his voice rise in desperation. “I still have nothing!”
    “You have great skill.” She smiled at him, her green eyes bright with confidence. He had no idea whether it was real or assumed. As always, she took no notice whatever of what he said, except to find a disarming reply. He had never had a more irresponsible client, or one who tried his patience so far.
    “There is no point in being the best shot in the world if you have no weapon to fire,” he protested, “and no ammunition.”
    “You will find something.” She lifted her chin a little. “Now, Sir Oliver, is it not time for us to enter the fray? The usher is beckoning. He is an usher, is he not, that little man over there waving at you? That is the correct term?”
    Rathbone did not bother to answer but stood aside for her to precede him. He squared his shoulders and adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time, actually sending it slightly askew, and went into the courtroom. He must present the perfect image.
    Instantly the hum of conversation ceased. Everyone was staring, first at him, then at Zorah. She walked across the small space of the open floor to the seats at the table for the defendant, her head high, her back stiff, looking neither right nor left.
    There was a dull murmur of resentment. Everyone wascurious to see the