Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  “Your motives for wishing Prince Friedrich’s return are very easily understandable, sir. Indeed, I imagine almost every man or woman here could sympathize with you and, given the same circumstances, would probably do as you have done. What is far harder to understand—in fact, for me it is impossible—is why your hatred of Princess Gisela ran so deeply as to make her abandonment a condition of Prince Friedrich’s return. It does not seem to make sense.”

  He turned his head to glance momentarily at Gisela. “She is a charming and attractive woman, and has proved an excellent wife to Prince Friedrich—loyal, dignified, witty, one of the most successful hostesses in Europe. There has never been a word even whispered against her reputation in any sense. Why were you prepared to jeopardize your battle for independence simply to see that she did not return home with her husband?”

  Rolf stood stiffly in the box. He did not move his hands from his sides but remained at attention.

  “Sir, the situation is an old one, of some twelve-odd years. You know nothing of it except the last few months. For you to assume that you could possibly understand it is ridiculous.”

  “I need to understand it,” Rathbone assured him. “The court needs to.”

  “You do not!” Rolf contradicted. “It has nothing to do with Friedrich’s death or with the Countess Rostova’s slander.”

  The judge looked at Rolf, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but when he spoke his voice was still infinitely polite.

  “You are not the jury in this matter, Count Lansdorff. You are in an English court now, and I will decide what is necessary and what is not, according to the law. And those twelve gentlemen”—he indicated the jury—“will deliberate and decide what they believe to be true. I cannot force you to answer Sir Oliver’s questions. I can only advise you that should you fail to do so, you will invite an adverse opinion as to the reason for your silence. And murder is a capital crime. This particular murder was committed on English soil and is subject to English law, whoever the man or woman who committed it may be.”

  Rolf looked ashen.

  “I have no idea who killed Friedrich or why. Ask your questions.” He did not add “and be damned,” but it was in his face.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged, then turned back to Rolf.

  “Was the Princess Gisela aware of your negotiations, Count Lansdorff?”

  “Not from me. Whether Friedrich told her or not, I don’t know.”

  “You could not deduce from her behavior?” Rathbone said with surprise.

  “She is not a woman whose thoughts or feelings are readily visible in her expression,” Rolf answered coldly and without even glancing towards Gisela. “Whether her continued”—he searched for the word—“enjoyment of the party was due to ignorance of our mission or to confidence that Friedrich would never leave her, I have no way of knowing.”

  “Had you ever joined such a party before, Count Lansdorff?”

  “Not if Friedrich was there, no. I am the Queen’s brother. Friedrich chose to go into exile rather than fulfill his destiny.” The damnation was complete in his expression and in the tone of his hard, precise voice.

  “So we may deduce that Gisela believed Friedrich would not leave her?”

  “You may deduce what you please, sir.”

  Harvester smiled bleakly. Rathbone caught it out of the corner of his eye. He tried another approach.

  “Were you empowered to make any decisions regarding terms or concessions to Prince Friedrich, Count Lansdorff? Or did you have to refer back to the Queen?”

  “There were no concessions to make,” Rolf answered with a frown. “I thought I had made that plain, sir. Her Majesty would not countenance the return of Gisela Berentz, either as crown princess or as consort. If Friedrich did not accept those terms, then another leader for the cause would be sought.”

  “Who?”

  “I do not know.”

  Rathbone thought that was a lie, but he could see from Rolf’s face that it was the only answer he would receive.

  “It is a very extreme hatred the Queen has for the Princess Gisela,” he said thoughtfully. “It seems contrary to the best interests of her country to allow such a personal emotion to govern her actions.” It was not really a question, but he hoped it would sting Rolf into a defensive response.

  He was successful.

  “It is not a personal hatred!” Rolf said. “The woman was unacceptable as Friedrich’s wife … for many reasons, none of which are merely personal.” He used the term with the utmost derision.

  Rathbone deliberately turned and stared at Gisela as she sat beside Harvester. She was a picture of grief, a perfect victim. Harvester did not need to defend her from Rolf, her own demeanor did it better than any words of his could have. He looked angry, but satisfied.

  Zorah was sitting upright, tense, her face white.

  Rathbone turned back to Rolf.

  “She seems eminently suitable to me,” he said innocently. “She has dignity, presence, the admiration, even the love or the envy, of half the world. What more could you wish?”

  Rolf’s mouth twisted with an emotion which was as much pain as scorn.

  “She has the art to seduce men, the wit to make herself the center of attention, and the style to dress well. That is all.”

  There was a hiss from the gallery. One of the jurors let out an exclamation of horror.

  “Oh, come sir …” Rathbone protested, his pulse suddenly racing, his mouth dry. “That seems, at the very kindest, ungallant and highly prejudiced—at the worst, as if founded in some acutely personal hatred—”

  Rolf lost his temper. At last he unbent and leaned forward over the railing, glaring across at Rathbone.

  “That you should be ignorant of her nature, sir, is hardly your fault. Most of Europe is ignorant of it, thank God. I would that they could have remained so, but you force my hand. Like any other royal house, we need an heir. Waldo will not provide one, through no fault of his own. That is not a matter I can or will discuss. Gisela is childless of her own choice—”

  There was a wave of reaction from the gallery.

  Harvester half rose in his seat, but his protest was lost in a general noise.

  The judge banged his gavel for silence and a return to order.

  Rathbone looked at Rolf, then at Gisela. She seemed almost bloodless, her eyes huge and hollow, but he had no idea whether it was fear, horror, mortification at such public disclosure, or an old grief reawakened.

  The noise still had not subsided. He turned to Zorah.

  She seemed as surprised and confused as anyone.

  The judge banged his gavel again. Order returned.

  “Count Lansdorff?” Rathbone said distinctly.

  Rolf would not now be stopped. “Had Friedrich put her aside, he could have married a more suitable woman, one who would have given the country an heir,” he continued. “There are many young women of noble birth and spotless reputation, pleasing enough in manner and appearance.” He did not look away from Rathbone, but his face tightened in reluctance. “The Baroness von Arlsbach would have been perfect; she would always have been perfect. The Queen begged him to marry her. She had every virtue, and is deeply loved by the people. Her family is unblemished. Her own reputation grows higher by the month.”

  He ignored the people, even the jurors, every set of eyes scanning the benches to see if she was present. “She has dignity, honor, the loyalty of the people and the respect of all those who meet her, native and foreigner alike,” he continued. “But he chose that woman instead.” His eyes flickered for a moment to Gisela and away again. “And we are left barren!”

  “That is a tragedy which has affected many dynasties, Count Lansdorff,” Rathbone said sympathetically. “We are not unfamiliar with it here in England. You will have to amend your constitution so the crown may pass laterally through the female line.” He ignored Rolf’s expression of incredulity. “But you could not know when Prince Friedrich married Gisela
that that union would be childless, and it is unjust to be so certain that it is Gisela’s doing, and willfully so.”

  He lowered his voice a little. “Many women long desperately to have a child, and when they do not have one, they put a brave face to the world and hide their grief by pretending it is not there. It is a very private and deeply personal affliction. Why should anyone, even a princess, parade it for the public to see, or to pity?”

  Rolf said with tense, almost sibilant bitterness, “Gisela’s barrenness is of her own choosing. Do not ask me how I know it!”

  “I must ask you,” Rathbone insisted. “It is a harsh charge, Count Lansdorff. You cannot expect the court, or anyone, to believe you unless you can substantiate it!” He smiled a trifle wryly at the irony.

  Rolf remained silent.

  Harvester rose to his feet, his face flushed. “My lord … this is iniquitous! I …”

  “Yes, Mr. Harvester,” the judge said quietly. “Count Lansdorff, you will either retract your remarks about the Princess Gisela, and admit them to be untrue, or you will explain your grounds for making them and allow the court to decide whether they believe you or not.”

  Rolf stood to attention again, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He looked beyond Rathbone and the plaintiff’s and defendant’s tables to somewhere in the gallery, and without thinking, Rathbone turned and looked also. The judge followed Rolf’s eyes, and the jury swiveled to stare.

  Rathbone saw Hester, and next to her a young man in a wheelchair, his fair brown hair catching the light. Behind him, also in the aisle, were an older man and woman of unusually handsome appearance. Presumably, from the way they regarded him, they were his parents. This was the patient Hester had spoken of. She had said they were from Felzburg. It was not unnatural they should feel compelled to come to the trial, after what the newspapers had said.

  Rathbone turned back to the witness stand.

  “Count Lansdorff?”

  “Gisela is not barren,” Rolf said between his teeth. “She had a child from an illicit affair many years before she married Friedrich—”

  There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room so sharp it was a hiss. Harvester shot to his feet, then found he had no idea what to say. Beside him, Gisela was as white as paper.

  One of the jurors coughed and choked.

  Rathbone was too stunned to speak.

  “She did not want it,” Rolf went on, his voice stinging with contempt. “She wanted to get rid of it, abort it—” Again he was forced to stop by the noise in the courtroom. The gallery erupted in anger, revulsion and distress. A woman screamed. Someone called out curses, random, indiscriminate.

  The judge banged his gavel, his eyes puckered with distress.

  Harvester looked as if he had been struck in the face.

  Rolf’s voice, harsh and loud, cut across them all.

  “But the father wanted the child, and told her he would expose her if she destroyed it, but if she bore it, alive, he would take it and love it.”

  There was sobbing in the gallery.

  The jurors were ashen-faced.

  “She gave birth to a son,” Rolf said. “The father took it. He struggled for a year to care for the boy himself, then he fell in love with a woman of his own rank and station, a woman of gentleness and nobility who was prepared to raise the boy as her own. Conceivably, the boy has never known he was not hers.”

  Rathbone had to clear his throat before he could find his voice.

  “Can you prove that, Count Lansdorff? These are terrible charges.”

  “Of course!” Rolf’s lips curled in scorn. “Do you imagine I would make them from the witness stand if I could not? Zorah Rostova may be a fool … but I am not!

  “Her second child was not so fortunate,” he continued, his voice like breaking ice. “She conceived to Friedrich, and this one she succeeded in aborting herself. Apparently, she had some knowledge of herbs. It is an art some women choose to cultivate—for health or cosmetic reasons, among others. And to concoct aphrodisiacs or procure abortions. She was ill after this, and was attended for a short time by a doctor. I do not know if you can force him to testify, but he would not lie to you under oath. The matter distressed him profoundly.” His face was contorted with emotion. “But if his profession seals his tongue, ask Florent Barberini. He will swear to it, if you press him. He has no such binding loyalties.” He stopped abruptly.

  Rathbone had no alternative. The court was hanging on a breath.

  “But the child you say she bore, Count Lansdorff? Gisela’s son! That is surely provable?”

  Rolf looked one more time at the judge.

  The judge’s face was filled with regret but unyielding.

  “I am sorry, Count Lansdorff, but the charge you make is too terrible to go unproved, true or false. You must answer if you can.”

  “The affair was with Baron Bernd Ollenheim,” Rolf said huskily. “He took his child, and when he married, his wife loved the boy as her own.”

  He had nothing else to say, but the emotion of the court would not have permitted him to speak anyway. As suddenly as the breaking of a storm, their adoration for Gisela had turned to hatred.

  Harvester looked like a man who had witnessed a fatal accident. His face was bereft of color, and he made half movements and then changed his mind, opened his mouth as though to speak and found he had no words.

  Gisela herself sat like a woman turned to stone. Whatever she felt, there was no reflection of it written on her features. There was nothing that seemed like regret. Not once did she turn to see if she could recognize Bernd Ollenheim in the gallery, and she could hardly have failed to realize he was there—from Rolf’s steady gaze, filled with pity, and from the movement of the crowd as it too realized at whom he had gazed.

  Rathbone looked at Zorah. Had she known this? Had she been waiting for Rolf to expose it, hoping, trusting it would come?

  From the motionless amazement in her face he could only deduce that it was as shocking to her as it was to everyone else, except Gisela herself.

  It was seconds, minutes, before the hubbub died down sufficiently for Rathbone to be heard.

  “Thank you, Count Lansdorff,” he said at length. “We appreciate that must have been painful for you to have to reveal, in your regard for the innocent. However, it explains Queen Ulrike’s undying contempt for Gisela …” He too almost unconsciously omitted her title. “And the reason she could not, in any circumstances, permit her to return to Felzburg and become queen. Were this to become public knowledge after that event, the scandal would be devastating. It could bring down the throne. It was not possible that she should permit that.”

  He took a step back, turned, and then faced Rolf again. “Count Lansdorff, was Prince Friedrich aware of this past tragedy and of Gisela’s son?”

  “Of course,” Rolf said bleakly. “We told him when he first sought to marry her. He disregarded it. He had an ability not to see what he did not wish to.”

  “And the later abortion? I presume that is why she has not since conceived a child?”

  “You presume correctly. She now cannot. I doubt you will get the doctor to testify to that, but it is true.”

  “And was Prince Friedrich aware that his child was killed in the womb?”

  There was a gasp around the room. In the center of the gallery, a woman was weeping. The jurors were like a row of men at an execution.

  Rolf blanched even further.

  “I don’t know. I did not tell him, although I knew it then. I doubt she told him. Unless Barberini did. I think that unlikely.”

  “You did not use it to persuade him to leave his wife? I confess, I believe I would have.”

  “I would have too, Sir Oliver,” Rolf said grimly. “But only as a last resort. I did not want a broken man. As it happened, I did not have the opportunity, and after his accident it would have been brutal. It might have killed him. Whether I would have told him later, had he recovered, I cannot tell you. I do not know.�
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  “Thank you, Count Lansdorff. I have no further questions for you. Please remain, in case Mr. Harvester has.”

  Harvester rose, swayed a little, as if caught in a great wind, and cleared his throat.

  “I … I assume, Count Lansdorff, that this monstrous story is one you could, and would, prove in this court if required to?” He attempted to sound brave, even defiant, but his ability failed him. He was obviously as appalled as anyone in the room. He was a man quietly devoted to his own wife and daughters, and his emotions had been too profoundly outraged for him to conceal it.

  “Of course,” Rolf said dryly.

  “You may be required to do so. Naturally, I shall take instruction.” There was nothing he could say to rebut the charge, and to have spoken now of its irrelevance to Zorah’s slander would have been ridiculous. No one cared. No one was even listening. He sat down again a changed man.

  The judge looked at Rathbone, his face pinched with sadness.

  “Sir Oliver, I feel, regrettably, that you had better provide whatever substantiation is open to you. We do not impugn Count Lansdorff’s testimony, but so far it is still only his word. I think it were better the issue were closed now, if that is a chance available to us.”

  Rathbone nodded. “I call Baron Bernd Ollenheim to the stand.”

  “Baron Bernd Ollenheim!” the usher repeated.

  Very slowly, Bernd rose to his feet and made his way forward from the gallery, across the floor and up the steps of the witness stand till he turned at the top and faced the court. He was white, his eyes sick with distress. He looked over Rathbone’s head towards Gisela as if she were something that had crept out of a cesspool.

  “Would you like a glass of water, sir?” the judge asked him gently. “I can send an usher for one with no difficulty.”

  Bernd recalled himself. “No … no, thank you, my lord. I shall be quite in command of myself.”

  “If you wish for assistance, you may request it,” the judge assured him.

  Rathbone felt like a man stripping another naked. He did it only because the question must be answered now, and finally.

  “Baron Ollenheim, I shall not keep you long.” He took a deep breath. “I regret the necessity for calling you at all. I simply wish to ask you either to substantiate or to deny the testimony of Count Lansdorff regarding your son. Is he indeed also the son of Gisela Berentz?”