Mary had found her mind running in the same fruitless circle in the weeks she was confined, waiting for the justices to arrive to hear her case. She had been accused by Marcus Traywick of attempted murder, and he would be allowed to prosecute her, but she would not be allowed to defend herself.
So startling did she find the information that she had forced them to repeat the parameters of her situation several times. They had explained patiently, but with no understanding, seemingly, of her concerns. This was the way English justice had been conducted for hundreds of years. It was the job of the judges to get at the truth, they repeated, and Mary had been assured again and again that she might trust them to do just that.
She had been confined in the small county gaol since the winter dawn when she stumbled into the village to seek help for her master. That morning her face had already begun to darken where he had struck her and her nose had been grotesquely swollen, but her concern had been all for the man she had injured, lying near death, she believed, in his tall brick house.
She had not understood at first what they were saying when they returned. Out of some mistaken sense of gratitude, perhaps, she had made no accusations against the man who had sheltered her and her son for six years. And she could never have imagined, of course, the story Traywick had devised to explain away the events of the previous night.
She had had three long months to contemplate what a fool she had been not to blurt out the shocking truth when she first confronted the sympathetic women who ministered to her injury. By the time their menfolk returned from the errand of mercy on which she had sent them, it had been too late.
During her imprisonment, she had been allowed her needlework and her Bible. She had been visited by the vicar of the parish church, who apparently felt obligated, despite her crime, to offer her what spiritual comfort he could. He knew nothing of her story, past or present, and Mary did not choose to enlighten him.
She had not, of course, been allowed to see Richard— not since she left him in the cold darkness, standing watch over the body of the man whom he believed to be his father. The possibility that she might never again be allowed to see her son was a constant weight upon her spirit. All else she might bear, but the thought of Tray wick’s control over the boy was like a spear through her heart.
She knew the nature of the merchant too well to expect that Richard would completely escape his wrath at what she’d done. Her best hope for her son was that Tray wick would carry out the threat she had once feared above all others. She hoped desperately that he might marry again and send the boy away to school. There alone might the child be safe from the merchant’s vindictive spirit.
So she had prayed through the remaining days of the winter and in the weak sunshine of the arriving spring for her son’s safety. The prosperous merchant who had been injured in the incident and who had brought the indictment against her was certainly her social superior, even if he was engaged in trade. There was no one she could turn to for help against his accusations. She had made her appeal for help once before, and it had gone unanswered. There was no one to speak for Mary Winters—and, of course, there never had been.
The hall where the trial was to be held was crowded with curious spectators. The sensationalism of the testimony about the attempted rape had lured onlookers from miles around, it was even said from as far away as London.
Mary had spent a sleepless night attempting to prepare herself for the ordeal of listening publicly to the lies Marcus Traywick had devised. Although at one time she had hoped that Traywick’s appearance to prosecute his claim might allow her a glimpse of her son, she had come to recognize that the merchant’s refusal to allow the child to be questioned was far better for Richard—and, of course, damning for her own cause.
Richard, had he been allowed to give evidence, would undoubtedly have corroborated her version of the events. But having her son forced to sit in open court and listen to the proceedings would be horrifying. If she could not devise a plan to free him from Traywick’s control, it would be better that she suffer whatever punishment the courts might give than to have Richard exposed to that sordidness.
She had not expected the size of the crowd. Although she attempted to remain outwardly composed, she could feel the avid eyes of the curious examining her features. Finally the proceedings began and then swirled around her, voices coming at her as if in a dream.
She allowed herself no outward reaction to the sight of Marcus Traywick’s brutally scarred profile. He had lost weight, his wool suit fitting loosely over his thick body. His yellow-brown eyes flicked over her once with contempt, and then he listened to the proceedings without again glancing her way. He never even looked at her as he repeated the same lies he had been telling since the morning the constable arrived at the house to find him fully con scious, suffering agonies from his burns, and insanely furious.
There were no witnesses to give testimony other than the constable, Traywick, and the doctor who had eventually been called to treat the merchant’s injuries. As she had been led to expect, Mary was not given an opportunity to speak.
When it seemed that they were done with questioning the witnesses the prosecution had presented, Mary attempted to address the judges, splendidly robed and wigged, whose job it was, she had always supposed, to bring English justice to the district. She was quickly and harshly instructed by the chief justice to cease speaking. She was even informed that it was not in the interest of the proceedings to listen to the accused.
“But surely, my lord Justice, it is in the interest of this court to hear the truth,” Mary avowed calmly, despite his orders. “Have you not come here to seek the truth?”
“We have come here to hear the testimony of your accuser, and you would do well to remember that you are not the injured. You are not the one seeking justice in this case.”
“Since it is my freedom that is at stake, my lord, I am indeed the one seeking justice,” Mary argued reasonably. “Which, if you listen to the lies that have been told here today, I shall not find in this court.”
“If you speak again, I will be forced to ask the constable to remove you.”
“Then at least I should not be made to hear Mr. Traywick’s spiteful inventions against my character.”
“Silence!” the justice roared. Apparently he had never been challenged in a session of the assizes before—certainly not by a criminal. To his mind, her boldness seemed to argue the truth of her prosecutor’s allegations better than any testimony that had been given against her. “We are not interested in anything you may have to say,” the lord chief justice continued, imbuing his tone with all the authority his position gave him.
“Then perhaps you might be interested in what I have to say.” The deeply masculine voice came from the back of the hall, and in the silence that had fallen after the justice’s outburst, its calmness gave the words a power they might otherwise not have had.
Heads turned and eyes shifted to find the man who had spoken. Mary Winters alone among the throng did not attempt to see the speaker. From the first syllable out of his mouth, there had been no doubt in her mind as to his identity.
“And you, sir? Who are you to disturb the proceedings of this court?” the lord chief justice asked. His question was as harshly demanding as when he had spoken to the accused.
“Forgive me, my lord Justice. My name is Vail,” the tall, golden-haired man in the back of the courtroom announced calmly.
The words might have been a thunderclap, for the effect they had. The chief lord justice’s mouth sagged, and an excited buzz of comment wafted through the assembly. It was a name that was familiar to all in this district, one of the oldest titles in England, and the man who bore it now was both enormously wealthy and powerfully influential,