William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

looked at Wystan, and for the first time saw a shadow of unmistakable doubt in his face.
    Was this the edge of the final disaster, or was it the beginning of hope? His heart pounded; the weight inside his chest was painful.
    Very slowly Wystan rose to his feet. “My lord, I withdraw my objection. Mr. Brancaster is quite right. This prospect is too appalling to leave it in the air, unresolved. It would cause a public panic.”
    York looked at Brancaster with loathing.
    “You have raised a demon, sir. You will now deal with it.”
    Brancaster inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I cannot do it alone, my lord, but I will seek such help as I need. Tomorrow morning I will call the accused to the stand.”
    Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his body. It was a terrible gamble Brancaster was taking, but he was playing for the highest stakes of all—the complete exposure of the photographs with all the ruin they would bring. Was it a defense? It was certainly an attack. Could they win? Or was he prepared to sacrifice Rathbone if he had to, to end it once and for all?
    If he were honest, Rathbone had to admit that, unwittingly, he had sacrificed himself.
    I T WAS THE LONGEST night Rathbone could recall. He tossed from one side of the wretched mattress to the other, hot one minute, cold the next. Did soldiers feel like this waiting to go into battle the next day? Victory and honor—or death? He had no escape. He was locked in, as he might be for years. However unrealistic it was, this was the last night he could cling to hope. He was torn between wanting to savor every minute of it and wishing it were over.
    The morning began as the one before had, a breakfast of bread he could barely swallow and tea that was revolting. He took it all, to steady himself. He could not allow his nerves to betray him now.
    Even so, he was sure his legs were shaking as he walked across the open floor to climb up the steps to the witness stand. Certainly he had to grip the railing to keep his balance. How ridiculous he would look if he fell down the stairway. Worse than that, he might injure himself, break an ankle. He would be vulnerable enough in prison without having broken bones.
    But the humiliation of being carried off, unable even to testify, would be the worst. Was Beata York here today? He did not want to know. Would he look for Henry Rathbone’s face in the gallery? He was not even certain about that.
    He had reached the top of the steps and held onto the rail, taking the Bible in his other hand and swearing on it to tell the truth.
    What was the point of that? Didn’t accused men usually lie? Wasn’t that somewhat taken for granted? He could tell the truth as exactly andhonorably as he wished, and most of the people here would still think him a liar.
    He must look at Brancaster and concentrate. This was his only chance. The rest of his life depended on what he said now.
    Brancaster was standing in front of him, looking up, his face intensely serious.
    “Sir Oliver,” Brancaster began. “You have heard Mr. Wystan suggest that there might be a number of obscene photographs similar to the one of a witness in the trial of Abel Taft, a trial over which you presided. Do you know if indeed there are other such photographs?”
    Rathbone cleared his throat. It was so tight he gulped before he could find his voice.
    “Yes. There are nearly three score that I know of.”
    “Really? So many. How do you know of them?”
    “I … I have them.” How bold and ugly that sounded.
    There was a rustle of movement in the gallery, gusts of breath let out, murmurs of disgust.
    “I see,” Brancaster pursed his lips. “Do you know who is in them?”
    “Not all of them. Of course, the one I gave Mr. Warne in the Taft trial, and one or two others.”
    “How is it that you don’t know who is in all of them, if you own them?” Brancaster tried to look curious and succeeded only in looking wretched.
    No one objected or interrupted, though York was drumming his fingers on the bench.
    “I looked at them once,” Rathbone replied, remembering the incident with revulsion. “I should have destroyed them then, but I did not.”
    “Why not?” Brancaster asked.
    Rathbone thought back. “I recognized some of the faces. I was … stunned, horrified. As Mr. Wystan suggested, there are among the abusers men of great power and privilege. The man who possessed them before I did used them—at first to force those men into doing the right thing,