Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  The little clerk was hopping up and down like a man demented, his shrieks for quiet and order adding to the din.

  Half suffocated by the grubby rag knotted tightly across his mouth, parched with thirst, Farrar reeled under the rough hands of the guard and sank, consciousness fading.

  “His own cousin!” howled a man in city clothing.

  “We all knew Sir Harding, hereabouts!” roared another man—also in city clothing—“And I fancy we know how to deal with a deserting murderer!”

  Pounding his gavel, Green raged, “Quiet! or I will clear this court!”

  The perspiring clerk ran frantically about, shrieking his demands for silence, and to an extent the uproar lessened.

  “Thank … heaven, the judge stopped it!” whispered Dimity, pale and shaking with fright.

  “Best not be too grateful,” her brother grunted, slipping his arm about her. “If Justice Toad has stopped a lynching, it’s for some slippery purpose of his own.”

  A husky one-armed individual who had somehow insinuated himself between Peregrine and the farmer’s wife, muttered, “If I knows Lord Hibbard Green, sir, he means to pertect hisself as best he can. Just you wait and see.”

  Peregrine eyed him narrowly. “I think I’ve seen you before … Oh yes, you was at the bazaar. I’d the impression you’d no love for Captain Farrar.”

  The big man gestured to his missing arm. “Blamed him fer this. Not at first, y’understand. At first I didn’t so much as think of it. Wasn’t till the man come and told us what had really happened, I started to holding it agin the captain. I come here to face him with it. But—Lord alive, sir, I don’t like the smell o’ this lot! There’s been rank lies told, what—”

  “ORDER IN THE COURT!” screamed the clerk, both arms in the air.

  Much to Peregrine’s regret, silence was restored.

  My lord thanked Corporal Goodwin for his testimony and asked the Counsel for the Prisoner if he had any questions. Mr. Eccles said that he did indeed have some questions, and proceeded to ask the good corporal why he feared Captain Farrar.

  “A man what would murder his cousin, sir,” said the corporal, “wouldn’t think twice on havin’ a common soldier done away with!”

  Waiting for the learned Counsel’s protest, Peregrine waited in vain, and whispered to the ceiling that he could not believe this farce was in fact taking place in civilized Britain!

  Mr. Eccles, satisfied that he had done his duty, sat down while the next person to make a deposition, a Sergeant Shortbridge, was called. He was a tall, well set-up man, but was so unfortunate as to suffer a slight speech impediment, in addition to which he dropped his “h’s” and his words were very rapid, so that it was necessary for his lordship to interrupt from time to time and ask that he repeat his remarks. He stated without bombast that he had been in the army for seventeen years, had been mentioned for bravery while fighting in the Low Countries, and had later served under the command of Major Horace Rhodes at the Battle of Prestonpans. He praised the conduct of Captain Farrar during the night before the battle and went on to describe the death of Major Rhodes in such vivid terms that the judge was again moved to intervene.

  “Such sad events are heart-rending,” Green declared solemnly. “A man of Major Rhodes’ stamp is a true hero and a credit to the England we all love and reverence. For whom,” he directed a stern glance at the sagging prisoner, “most decent men, I thank the Lord, would die without hesitation!”

  Peregrine muffled a hoot of disgust, and Dimity leaned to him and whispered, “Is this one telling the truth, Perry?”

  “So far,” he answered. “I didn’t see Rhodes go— Hey! Poor Farrar is up again! He’ll fight them to the finish, be damned if he won’t!”

  Her gaze flew back to her beloved. He had indeed managed to straighten up and now leaned against the rail, watching the sergeant who was sombrely recounting the dramatic moments following the death of their commanding officer.

  “Captain Farrar instructed me to keep the men at their guns sir,” he said with his odd, half-swallowed enunciation. “I did the best I could but then I ’eard ’em all ’owling and raving and there was the captain one minute and gone like a flash the next melord.”

  His lordship leaned forward, his small eyes glinting craftily. “It astounds me, Sergeant, that no effort was made to—ah, halt so reprehensible and dishonourable a performance.”

  “There was a effort made your worship,” asserted the sergeant, his manner as grim as his lordship’s was kindly. “I shouted to the captain to stop—I knew we’d never ’old the men without ’im for the enemy was slaughtering at such a rate and yelling their war cries what you wouldn’t believe if ’ad you not of ’eard ’em wherefore our lads was fair knocky kneed. Captain Farrar made no sign of stopping and Lieutenant Sir ’arding Farrar says to me ‘Sergeant’ ’e says ‘that gentleman is my kinsman and I cannot allow as ’e shall throw mud on the family name I am going after ’im.’ So off ’e went poor gentleman though it did no manner of good ’cept ’e died young.”

  “Did you personally see Sir Harding remonstrate with his cousin?” asked Counsel.

  “No sir but poor young Private Slate done—er, did so.”

  Hibbard Green said heartily, “Then by all means, let us call the private and hear what he has to say of it.”

  The sergeant pursed his lips. “Cannot be done melord since ’e died a few minutes arterwards but ’e told me what a ’orrid sight it was to see such a fine young gent cut down in the flower of ’is youth as you might say.”

  “And,” purred his lordship, folding his fat hands and smiling benevolently, “did the poor private chance to describe the manner of Sir Harding Farrar’s death?”

  There was a tense silence.

  Aware that every eye in that hushed room was upon him, the sergeant drew himself up. “Yes ’e did. ’E says as Lieutenant Sir ’Arding Farrar was shot through the ’eart melord by ’is cousin Captain Anthony—”

  The rest of his words were drowned by the din.

  XIX

  For several moments, pandemonium reigned. Farrar, who had been unable to defend himself on the charge of cowardice, would dispute with his last breath the horrendous charge of murder. It seemed for a short space as though his last breath was imminent, but although the military made only a token effort to restore quiet, the mob did not attempt to drag the prisoner out and lynch him. That calm was restored was due in part to the efforts of Peregrine, Roger Steel, many of the staff of The Palfreys, some villagers from Palfrey Poplars, and the one-armed ex-soldier, but the failure of the hoped-for mob scene to materialize was also due to the fact that my Lord Hibbard Green’s hatred for Anthony Farrar had clouded his judgement. Had he treated the young aristocrat with deference and kindliness, the bereaved relatives and the majority of the simple villagers, egged on by the rabble-rousers, would have been willing to take matters into their own hands, judging that Farrar was being pampered because he was of the Quality. As it was, not all the vociferous proddings of Green’s hired bullies could provoke the crowd to do more than shout and threaten before eventually quieting down again.

  Restrained by the powerful guard from tearing the gag from his mouth, Farrar sought desperately through the sea of upturned and hostile faces for a glimpse of Mitten or his aunt. He located the girl at last, ministering to Lady Helen, who appeared to be in a swooning condition. His anxiety was cut short when the guard shoved him violently, and he became aware that Green was speaking.

  “… blame these good people for such a display! What we have heard here this morning has been enough to appall the most callous of men, and the effect on the ladies must be such that I will allow any gentle creature who feels overcome to leave the courtroom.” No gentle creature availing herself of this offer, my lord went on, “What a sad pass we have come to in this modern age, that a well-born man, bred up with every opportunity for the improvement of the mind and the shaping of strength of character, instead descends to such dastardly be
haviour as to revolt every sense of honour and decency. I put it to you, Anthony Farrar, that, for the sake of your immortal soul, you will be well advised to confess your guilt and throw yourself upon the mercy of this Court!”

  Farrar again striving to remove the gag from his mouth, my lord lifted a hand to restrain the guard’s immediate and harsh reprisal. “So you wish to confess, do you, poor wretch? Very well, but I warn you—attempt another vile outcry and you will discover you stand before one who will not hesitate to take drastic measures.” He nodded to the guard, and the gag was removed.

  Farrar’s attempt to speak was foiled by his parched throat, however, and his faint croaks were almost inaudible.

  “Speak up,” snapped my lord. “If you are unable, we shall ask Counsel to speak for you.”

  With all his strength, Farrar strove to make himself heard. “If I might—have some water … please.”

  My lord cupped a hand about one ear. “What does he say, guard?”

  “He asks for a drink, your worship.”

  “Good God! The audacity of it! Sir, you are here to stand trial on what may well be a capital offence, not to indulge in a bacchanalian orgy!” At this, many of the spectators who were beginning to be uneasy about this trial, eyed each other askance, and a low and faintly resentful murmur arose from the crowded benches. My lord heard, and knew he had suffered a reverse. Irritated, he went on swiftly, “Since you find it difficult to be coherent, Farrar, I shall ask questions, and you may answer. You heard the charge made by Sergeant Shortbridge?”

  “Yes … but I—”

  “What have you to say for yourself?”

  Farrar gripped the dock and leaned forward. “All—lies! I did not—”

  “Did not—what? Run? I had understood you admitted that disgusting act.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why? Why did you run, Captain Sir Anthony Farrar? Was it because you were paralyzed with fear of the Scots?”

  “No, I—”

  “When you address the Court, you will say, ‘No, my lord.’ You are in sufficient trouble, do not add contempt to your charge list! You ran then, because,” he grinned at the crowded benches, “you were not afraid?”

  “No. That is—yes! I—”

  “You change your testimony, sir! You must make up your mind! Is your answer yes, or no?”

  Farrar blinked at him and wished he would not shout so. Every syllable came like a blow at his pounding head; he was so tired he could scarcely see, and the heavy manacle dragged agonizingly on his hurt arm. It was so hard to think and even harder to try to talk with this raging thirst turning his mouth into sand. “I—I am sorry, but—I forget the question,” he stumbled.

  “Forget the question, indeed! Jove, but you will not make mock of this trial, sir! Nor of these patient and long-suffering jurors! You have admitted desertion. But you claim you were not afraid.” His lordship leaned back, smiling. “Well, well. I wonder you ran at all, in that case. Unless—” He jerked forward suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Can it be possible, Farrar, that you were not running from fear of the enemy, but from fear of being apprehended for the disgraceful act you had just committed? The murder most foul of your innocent cousin!”

  “No!”

  “Is it not a fact that you coveted the great estate your cousin was to inherit, and meant to have it whatever the cost?”

  “No!”

  “Is it not a fact,” thundered his lordship, “that you saw the battlefield as a perfect place to commit so heinous a crime, seized your opportunity, and then panicked and fled? Do you dare deny it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes—what?”

  “Yes—my lord…”

  “To which question? Are you confirming, or denying?”

  Swaying and bewildered by the barked out rapid-fire questions, Farrar lifted a manacled hand to his brow. “I—”

  “Why will you not give an honest answer? Admit the truth! You shot your cousin and—”

  “No! It is—”

  His lordship gave a roar of rage. “Do not dare to interrupt a King’s Magistrate when he speaks! By the rood, Farrar, I am well justified to have you hanged here and now!”

  “I did—did not m—”

  “Lies and more lies! Are you incapable of speaking truth, sir? You have heard the sworn testimony of a fine soldier. A man at point of death accused you of the murder of your cousin! Own the truth and the Court might be disposed to be merciful!”

  What he was saying was that to admit Harding’s murder would buy a less shameful death than the gibbet … Farrar gripped hard at the bar. He was going to die anyway. What difference to give in, and at least not suffer the nightmare shame of public hanging…?

  His weary gaze turned to the benches. He blinked his eyes into focus and saw Helen, pale and shaking, a handkerchief pressed to her lips, watching him in horror. She half believed it, at all events … And then he saw another face; a white, lovely face, the great eyes full of anguish, the hands tight gripped, the mouth trembling. Mitten, his beautiful dream wife, was suffering torment down there—because she loved and trusted in him.

  “Speak up, man! I’ve another case to try today!”

  Farrar dragged his head around and saw yet a third face. His cousin Phillip, a sly, gloating grin on the handsome features. Phillip would inherit The Palfreys, and had apparently run out of patience, waiting for a military tribunal to despatch the man who stood in his way. That was why they had tried to kill him during the duel. That was why Hibbard Green was fighting now to have him executed with even deeper dishonour.

  “I will hear your confession,” barked my lord, angrily, “within sixty seconds—or instruct the jury as to their decision.”

  Farrar’s chin came up. He met that hate-filled glare and managed the travesty of a smile. “You,” he said clearly, “may go to hell!”

  * * *

  “And despite the shameful and depraved nature of these heinous crimes,” expounded his lordship, enjoying himself as he instructed the jurymen, “you have seen this man consistently refuse to answer questions put to him in a fair and impartial Court of Law. In defiance of your authority, and indeed of your intelligence, he has uttered blatant falsehoods, used foul language to a King’s Magistrate, abused the ears of the gentle ladies present, many of whom are bereaved as a result of his infamy, and in general behaved in a manner contrary to every concept of the oath he swore upon entering the service of the king.

  “You have heard him accused of murder most foul—nay, you have heard a stalwart fighting man recount under oath the statement of a doomed comrade—and what, I ask you, could carry more weight of honesty than the word of a man about to meet his Maker?—who was eye-witness to the cruel killing. Had it not been that cowardice under enemy fire got the best of him, Sir Anthony Farrar might well have achieved his despicable object with no least suspicion falling upon him. He would have continued to use a title to which his very guilt denies him; his bloodstained hands would greedily have clutched the fortune he wrested unto himself, and there is no doubt in my mind but that he would have proven loath to allow any more than a pittance to the trusting lady who took him in as an orphan, who nurtured and loved him down through the years, and whom he repaid with the brutal murder of her only and beloved child!”

  Gagged once more, Farrar watched Green with a weary disgust. The man’s rascality was beyond belief. He ascribed to his victim the very crimes he himself had committed—and intended to commit. But his eloquence was succeeding with the jury, and the intoxicated member went so far as to wipe a tear from his eye.

  Encouraged, my lord said sadly, “I need not tell you how it grieves my very soul to have to sit in judgement on one of my own station in life. An aristocrat, who has sunk to deeds that an honest working man would abhor! None the less, duty must be served, and I think you know the verdict you must in all good conscience bring in; the only verdict that men sworn before God to serve king and country, could deliver, or that would be acceptable to t
his Court.” He paused, fixing them one by one with a stern and meaningful stare. “Shall you find it necessary, foreman, to withdraw?”

  The foreman of the jury, happily convinced that he would enjoy a pleasant dalliance with the buxom lass in the front row of the spectator section, leaned forward and whispered to the jurors, one of whom had to be woken up so as to respond.

  Dimity closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against her brother’s shoulder. Her betrayal had been for nought; Otton had likely never had the least intention of trying to help. And her beloved, there could be no possible doubt, was to be taken out and hanged by the neck until dead … Her grief was so intense that it was a sharp pain within her. She knew vaguely that Dr. Steel was comforting Lady Helen. She was aware of her brother’s ragefully whispered promise that they would rush an appeal to the king, that this farce was a disgrace to every concept of British jurisprudence. And she knew that Perry was as without hope as she; that the gallows waited outside for its helpless victim; that Anthony would hang because of the evil and greed of a man who misused his power. But, prepared as she was, her heart felt as though rent apart when the foreman coughed and said that he had now conferred with his fellow jurymen. She jerked erect, her fingers tightening convulsively on Peregrine’s hand, her face so deathly pale that her brother felt hot tears of sympathy sting his own eyes and turned a blurred but rageful gaze on the magistrate.

  Triumphant, and therefore expansive, his lordship said smilingly, “I want it understood that you are quite free to take all the time you need to reach a decision. Are you perfectly sure you do not desire to withdraw?”

  “Ain’t no need for it, melord,” said the foreman with a careless shrug.

  “Oh, but you know, I really think there is.”

  The voice came from the rear of the great room. It was not a loud voice, and yet it seemed to ring through the quiet and all heads turned to see who had spoken.

  A gentleman strolled gracefully up the aisle. A figure not overly tall, but of impressive elegance, with a splendid French wig upon his head, and a silver-laced tricorne tucked under one arm. His cloak was thrown back carelessly to reveal a coat of dark blue velvet richly embellished with silver thread, and a waistcoat of lighter blue whereon delicate bluebirds were depicted. His small clothes were blue-grey satin, his shoes sported chased silver buckles and the high heels made a firm clicking sound as he proceeded towards the bench.