Leaning forward, Catherine rested white-knuckled hands on the railing as she heard from a trio of respectable women the long and harrowing tale of a black-haired witch who shamelessly used flowers to lure an innocent young man to his doom. How she’d stood between him and two brave guards who might save him, then cast a spell causing him to fly from the footpath to the middle of the road and perish under a cart.
Gasps rolled like thunder through the hall.
“Your reply, Master Parsons?” barked Norfolk, silencing the din.
Across the aisle from her, the lawyer rose to his feet and coughed. “Good women, are you sure it was Mistress Linwood you saw on that sad day?”
“Yes,” they replied as one.
“Oh,” he said and sat down.
She stared. Oh? That was all the old man could say to such a twisted version of the truth?
“Excuse me, your grace,” she began, addressing Norfolk. “I must—”
“There is no must in this court, Mistress Linwood. Your chance to speak will come later in proceedings. Now let us hear the next witness, to the charge of heresy and high treason.”
The sound of heels clicking on the wooden floor and the rustle of heavy silk were unbearably loud in the eerie quiet, and chills slithered down her spine at who might now seek to damn her.
Master Parsons stood again. “Your name, madam?”
The woman turned.
“Lady Jane Howard,” said Jane, settling herself on a high-backed chair.
Pressing a fist to her mouth to muffle a scream of denial, Catherine stared in shock at her friend. It was all becoming clearer now, Jane’s disappearance from court and lack of any contact after Papa’s death. When had she been told? Did she choose to do this or was she a witness by force? Could there be a tiny chance Jane might offer testimony to save her?
“Lady Jane,” said Master Parsons gently. “You claim witness to acts of heresy and high treason by Mistress Linwood?”
“I do. It is my great shame I once called her friend, but she hid her sinful heart well for a time. Until the day her father died.”
Agony threatened to tear her apart. The friend she had loved like a sister was about to calmly destroy her?
“Oh, Jane,” she whimpered through bloodless lips. “Please, please no…”
“What happened that day, my lady?” said Master Parsons.
“We were on our way to an audience with Her Majesty. We spoke of the impending blessed event. But Catherine…Mistress Linwood that is, forcibly diverted the conversation to a time…when something occurred that caused great sadness to our beloved queen. Then she expressed the deepest sympathies toward the Lady Elizabeth. Despite weak protests she was a good and loyal Catholic, I could only conclude, sir, that Mistress Linwood wished death to God’s anointed sovereign and her unborn child, and the throne be snatched by Lutherans.”
The hall erupted in a deafening chorus of furious shouts, foot stomping, jeers and threats. Tears flowing freely down her face, Catherine wrapped her arms around herself and rocked during the several minutes of Norfolk banging his gavel to restore order.
“Do you have anything final to add, Lady Jane?” asked Master Parsons.
“Indeed,” said Jane sharply, rising to her feet. “God save and bless Queen Mary!”
Several hundred voices echoed the sentiment as she departed, over and over until Norfolk banged the gavel again.
“Silence in the court,” he said irritably, “or I will clear it. We have one final witness today, to the charge of fornication. Bring in…Sir Brandon FitzAlan.”
God rot the hypocrites in this hall.
As he leisurely made his way to the front, Brand kept his hands by his sides, his face impassive. Surrounded by sinners, on the council and not, every second man guilty of the crimes he’d been accused of. Fornication? Each day and then some. Heresy? Should the queen perish and Elizabeth succeed, thousands would recant faster than they blinked. Witchcraft? Treason? Those crimes entailed whatever those on high said they did. Yesterday’s healers and favorites were today’s witches and traitors, as everyone knew.
The five councilmen, Norfolk, Arundel, Shrewsbury, Northumberland, and Pole, watched him like hawks, but not by so much as a twitch of the brow or lagging footfall did he reveal the burning agony of each step thanks to the prolonged punishment in front of the palace. They would see an unafraid, hale and hearty man, not one suffering a mess of welts, cuts, and black and purple-streaked bruising.
He allowed himself one long look at Carey as he settled into a chair, drinking in the sight of her like a parched man at a stream, willing her to lift her gaze from the floor. Finally she did, and the streaks of tears, the hollow despair there was nearly his undoing.
Almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head.
Be strong, sweetheart. We shall win through this. Somehow.
His lawyer, a slippery, buck-toothed man named Clements, bowed to the councilmen. “If I might begin, your grace, Archbishop, my lords?”
With the panel’s permission, Clements turned back to him.
“Please confirm your name for the court.”
“Sir Brandon FitzAlan.”
“Son of?”
Brand looked directly at Arundel. “No one of note.”
“Er…very well. Let us—”
“One moment,” said Norfolk, holding up a hand. “Today, Sir Brandon, you are not the accused, but an important witness to the unspeakable crimes of one Mistress Catherine Linwood. This is your opportunity to provide a full and frank disclosure of your observations and clarify certain other matters. Any assistance will be favorably taken into account by this court, alongside expression of remorse, when judging your own misdeeds.”
Shock and rage surged through his veins at the honey-phrased invitation to betrayal.
Hurl Carey to the wolves and walk free.
The offer could only mean the duke knew Arundel was father to his key witness. Then again, Norfolk had briefly been Arundel’s son-in-law, so he probably knew all the family skeletons.
“I shall keep that in mind, your grace,” Brand said without inflection.
“Excellent. Pray continue, Master Clements.”
The lawyer bowed. “Sir Brandon, would you tell the court how
