Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Cecily snuck another glance in Devin’s direction, discreetly studying him during the courtroom exchanges. He had deceived her with the stack of forged letters, but he had done that out of love for her, she rationalized. Why else would he have planted copies of her passionate letters to him in Ian’s locked desk drawer and passed them off as correspondences from Ian’s whore, Josephine? She decided she could forgive him of that deception.

  Ian’s admission of guilt confused her though. When asked if he recognized the letters, she had expected him to respond with a resolute ‘no’, but he had answered, ‘yes’ instead. Had he and his whore exchanged letters and Ian was only assuming that those were them? Or was it something else entirely? Cecily shifted in her seat again and rubbed at her temples. All this wild speculation was giving her a headache. All that truly mattered was she was free, and Ian’s adulterous nature, real or fictional, was revealed. Right or wrong, Devin had finally provided the means for her to gain her freedom, and in the end, he had created a way for the two of them to be together again.

  How could she find fault in him for doing that?

  And with Ian now out of her life and Tyran proclaimed non de’herytae, she could marry Devin and work toward producing a pure Yordician heir, an heir the entire country would be proud to call their future king. A smile crept across her face as she recalled again the recent days and nights of passionate sex. Perhaps the heir was already growing inside her womb. She slid her hand down and caressed her flat stomach. In a few months’ time, perhaps her belly would swell, filled with the baby created by their love. Their lust.

  Beside her, Tyran squirmed in his chair. He bumped her arm, again. She glanced down her nose at him. The rude little bastard did not acknowledge her or his bumping of her at all. His attention was fixed solely on his father. For a while he had studied his boots, but now, his eyes remained locked on the back of Ian’s head. That was nothing new. Tyran was always studying Ian, emulating him, worshipping him, but this time, there was a different look in his eyes and the look she saw there made her smile grow.

  Anger, disappointment, she had never seen Tyran look at Ian that way before. Often, he had looked at her with those expressions, but never Ian. She could almost hear the idolatry crashing down around him and never had there been a sweeter sound. Cecily swallowed, and couldn’t help but snicker to herself when she saw his crestfallen face. There had always been a special bond between those two, a bond, which she had always found tremendously irritating.

  Until now, Ian had never done anything wrong in Tyran’s eyes.

  But she sensed the bond was eroding. Tyran was finally seeing his father’s true nature, the real Ian Weatherall, and she intended on making sure he witnessed his complete downfall.

  It would be the only way to break the boy’s indomitable spirit!

  “I am not guilty,” Ian shouted at the king. Cecily snorted quietly. Even with the mounds of evidence against him, he could not find the courage to admit his wrongdoing. “I am not guilty,” Ian repeated. His voice seemed to take on a nasally whine which grated on her last nerve. How had she managed to endure him and his wicked ways for so long? “Not guilty!” She glanced up at her father to see his reaction.

  Edmund leaned forward, his anger boiling just beneath the surface of his red face. “We will see.” His ominous tone rang throughout the amphitheater. He had always been against their arranged marriage, but her grandfather had insisted on the pairing. And now, almost fifteen years later, it seemed only fitting that the end of the unpleasantness came with the passing of the man responsible for initiating it.

  “My father did not kill anyone,” Tyran shouted defiantly. He jumped to his feet and pointed toward the panel of judges. “And you’re all a pack of liars!” He pointed at Lord Ragget. “Especially you!”

  Blood rushed to Cecily’s face as hundreds of eyes turned to focus on her and Tyran. She could almost hear the gossip beginning again. It’s not fair! She wasn’t his mother anymore. According to the king, she’d never been his mother. She wanted to shout that truth to the rafters. This outburst was not a bad reflection on her or her parenting skills. How could it be?

  She was a virgin!

  “Young man sit down!” the king ordered. His pale green eyes narrowed, and he shot her a dreadful look. What do you want me to do about him? She wanted to scream back. He’s not my responsibility anymore! You said so! Instead, she grabbed Tyran roughly by the scruff of his neck and yanked him back into his chair.

  “Not another word out of you!” she said between clenched teeth. Almost as sudden as his outburst, she felt a painful spasm knot her stomach.

  Tyran’s bottom lip pushed out slightly and he glared at her with a dark expression, an expression that mimicked her own. Only his eyes were different. The withering look she had just seen him level at Ian was now leveled at her. And that’s when she recognized the ugly truth. The bond between the two of them, father and son, had not eroded as much as she had thought. It was still there!

  “Stop it!” she demanded.

  Tyran crossed his arms and jutted his chin. She looked away and happened to catch Ian glaring back at her. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she found she could not move. Or breathe. She had never seen him look at her like that before, even during their most heated arguments, and it gave her the worst chill.

  “Eyes forward,” the ugly, pockmarked guard snapped at Ian.

  Cecily clutched her arms around herself. Gods, what kind of dark look was that!

  Ian slowly turned his body around, but he didn’t break eye-contact with her until his head was finally forced to follow his body. Cecily shivered. Even now, silly as it may seem, it still felt like he was staring at her. Stop looking at me! She wanted to scream.

  She needed a distraction. Devin was sitting on the edge of his seat. It was obvious he wanted to start another round of questions. She marveled at his intensity, his drive. He was a truly ambitious man now, willing to take dangerous chances to improve his lot in life. It was an interesting change. He hadn’t always been that way. Back when they were first together, before Ian, Devin had been . . . she struggled to put a finger on it. He’d always been passionate, creative, loving, but back then he’d been . . .

  Calmer? Happy with what he had. Satisfied.

  Now, he wanted more in his life. Now, he craved riches and power and . . .

  And Cecily found that tremendously alluring.

  Another spasm tightened the knot in her stomach and a wave of nausea washed over her. She held one of her cold fists to her lips and swallowed the bile threatening to bloat her cheeks. Something she’d eaten for lunch was not agreeing with her.

  “Mister Weatherall!” Devin said loudly.

  Cecily shifted in her chair again and watched as her lover strode confidently toward Ian.

  “You have admitted before you were angry with the king, furious perhaps,” Devin said. “I can bring forth witnesses, royal wardens, who will testify to your state of agitation when you arrived at the castle the night you murdered the king.”

  “I did not murder the king!” Ian protested.

  “But, you do admit you were furious?”

  Ian sighed. “I’m sure you can find any number of witnesses willing to say that.”

  “So, many people saw your furious state of mind?”

  Ian looked up at Devin. “I said I’m sure you can find any number of witnesses willing to say that . . . especially if you pay them well enough for their testimony.”

  Devin took a step back, aghast, covering his mouth with a hand. “You dare to insinuate that we would need to pay for testimony against you, mister?”

  “I think you would stoop that low to gain a conviction, yes.”

  Cecily raised an eyebrow. Although Ian looked weak, leaning heavily against the wooden box with his shoulders slumping forward, his words contained some fight in them still. Her stomach churned. With Ian’s bitter cold stare turned away from her, the room grew increasingly warmer and m
ore uncomfortable. A line of sweat formed along her brow beneath her bangs. She was glad she had worn her hair up and off her neck. From the envious looks she had received from the noble ladies upon her entry earlier, she knew by the week’s end, her new hairstyle would be copied throughout all Belyne and parts of Yordic.

  “I will go to whatever legal lengths are needed to uncover the truth,” Devin replied smoothly. He cast his smile toward the gallery, before walking over to Sir Walter Merriday. “You were carrying your sword,” he called back to Ian, “when you came to kill King Henrik, weren’t you?”

  “I did not kill the king.”

  The city administrator handed Devin a sword. Cecily recognized it immediately.

  “Is this your sword?” Devin brandished it smoothly, before holding it out for Ian’s inspection.

  “It is.”

  “It is indeed.” Devin snapped his fingers and the doors to Ian’s left opened. Captain Wolfe Straegar marched into the courtroom. Earlier, when he’d brought in Lord Orrington, he had looked a little disheveled and out of breath but since then, he had re-knotted his long blond hair and smoothed his immaculately tailored uniform. Cecily’s gaze roamed over the handsome captain and she wondered if what the ladies in court whispered about him was true. Her cheeks reddened.

  The captain approached Devin and he said something in his ear. Devin’s smile widened and for a moment, he seemed to have lost his line of questioning. With a gentle shake of his head, he turned back to face Ian.

  “As I was saying . . .” Devin’s hand moved to his injured chest, and Cecily heard a few of the simpering ladies in the room coo. “Captain, can you tell me where you found this weapon?”

  “The sword was found in the garden beneath the king’s chamber. Ian dropped it after he fled the castle.”

  “He fled the castle?”

  “Yes. After killing King Henrik, Ian attacked and wounded King Edmund using that sword,” Straegar replied. “When King Edmund defended himself, Ian leapt from one of the windows and in the process dropped his sword. He temporarily escaped on horseback, stealing one of the royal horses . . .”

  “King Henrik was dead when I entered the room, and I did not attack King Edmund, he attacked me first!” Ian declared evenly. “And finally, the horse was mine!”

  “Your horse?” Devin looked puzzled. “You left a horse tied outside the castle for your escape?”

  “No . . . I . . . I don’t remember . . .”

  “Allow me to refresh your memory. There were reports of two horses stolen from the royal stables, and two riders seen galloping away from the castle that night.” Devin rounded on Ian. “Tell me, who was your accomplice?”

  Ian shook his head, but Cecily thought she saw him stiffen a moment later. “Sir Lumist Tunney.” His voice was eerily different. Monotone.

  Cecily clutched her stomach. Gertrude had obviously undercooked or overcooked something again. Gods, how she hated that old Gyunwarian crone! Now with Ian gone from the house, she would make sure the cranky bitter old bitty ended up on the streets.

  “The handle of this sword is unique, isn’t it?” Devin continued, changing his line of questioning abruptly. The corners of her mouth rose, even as she held her upset stomach. Ian’s ineffectual defense and inability to keep up with Devin’s quick questions amused her. She found her eyes drawn to her lover.

  “I don’t know what that has to do with . . .” Ian began.

  “Mister Weatherall, I was speaking to Captain Straegar,” Devin replied. He turned back to the captain and held the sword out for him to examine.

  “Yes and no,” Straegar said. “The design is unique in that the handle incorporates the Weatherall’s Gyunwarian crest and symbol. The hilt is the black dragon’s neck while the pommel is the dragon’s closed maw. Unique, but I have seen this same design on one other weapon.”

  “Really?” Devin asked, sounding both curious and innocent at the same time.

  “Yes. The dagger I removed from King Henrik’s chest had the same hilt design.”

  Devin withdrew a dagger from a sheath attached to the back of his belt and held it up for everyone to see. There was a smattering of gasps throughout the gallery. Cecily recognized the dagger too. It was the same one Ian usually kept in his top desk drawer. Only, it had been missing the night she had searched his desk . . .

  “Is this the murder weapon?”

  Straegar nodded. “It is.”

  Devin turned to face Ian. A triumphant smile spread across his face. “Mister Weatherall, is this your dagger?”

  Cecily watched Ian shuffle his feet. The chains around his legs clattered loudly against the wooden platform. “Someone must have taken . . .”

  “I asked you a simple question, mister!” Devin’s voice rose. He glanced around the gallery, as if gathering the crowd to him. “We would like a simple answer. Yes, or no, is this weapon, the same weapon used to kill our beloved king, the weapon Captain Straegar removed from his ruined chest . . .” His voice broke slightly as anguish filled Devin’s violet eyes. “Is this your dagger?”

  Ian sagged against the box wall. He must know by now it was time for him to confess! Cecily glanced over at Tyran and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. See, she wanted to say to him, see what kind of monster your father really is?

  “The dagger is mine, but I did not use it . . .”

  “The murder weapon is yours!” Devin shouted. He backed away from the box, his face suddenly beaming as he showed the weapon to the gallery again.

  “Someone must have stolen . . .”

  “SILENCE!” the king bellowed.

  Cecily jerked back in her seat. She had never seen her father this red-faced with fury before. Not even when King Henrik had announced the arranged marriage.

  “Your majesty,” Devin said with a gentle bow. “I wish to call forward at this time a number of witnesses who will provide detailed testimony . . .”

  The king made an angry dismissive gesture. “I don’t need to hear any more and I doubt if anyone else on this panel does either.” He glared at the other nobles on the dais. One by one they slowly shook their heads. “Ian Weatherall, for the murder of King Henrik Rutherford, I find you guilty!” A smattering of applause and shouts of joy echoed momentarily around the amphitheater, but the king’s monstrous glare quieted the noisemakers almost immediately. “Admit your guilt, plead for mercy, and I will grant you a swift and painless death by way of the executioner’s axe.”

  “I am not guilty!”

  “I tell you again, admit your guilt, plead for mercy . . .”

  “I will not!” Ian said defiantly as he stood tall in the box. “I’ll invoke instead my rights of diplomatic immunity!”

  # # #

  Here ends Part Two of The Savage Nobles: Stolen Justice. The story concludes in Part Three - The Savage Nobles: Stolen Crown.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shawn Wickersheim lives in historic Woodstock Illinois with his wife and children. He enjoys being an Indie Author and is currently hard at work on his next novel. When he is not writing, working, hanging out with his family, or working around the house, he is usually shocked that he has ‘free’ time. He usually fills this ‘free’ time by reading, watching movies, bike-riding or occasionally sleeping.

  BOOKS BY SHAWN WICKERSHEIM

  The Penitent Assassin

  *The Savage Nobles: Stolen Dagger (Part One)

  *The Savage Nobles: Stolen Justice (Part Two)

  *The Savage Nobles: Stolen Crown (Part Three)

  *(formerly titled The Rush of Betrayal books)

  CONNECT WITH SHAWN WICKERSHEIM ONLINE

  Twitter: STWick

  Facebook: Shawn Wickersheim – Author

  Blog: The Ink-Competent Writer

  Goodreads: If you’d like to connect with me on Goodreads, please send me a ‘friend request’ and if you feel so inclined, drop me a line and let me know what you think of my books. I’d love to hear from you. Happy Reading!

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  Shawn Wickersheim, Stolen Justice