Chapter 27 The King’s Bench
THE KING’S BENCH
LIZZY
Lord Wellington said a few words to a guard, and the iron gates of Westminster Palace yard swung wide. Cobblestones rattled the wheels as we passed through a dark, arched tunnel into a courtyard. Soldiers rushed to open the carriage and let down the step.
Lord Wellington descended first. He offered me his hand while asking an aide, “Will we meet in the Secretary’s office?”
“The summons is to the King’s Bench, my lord,” the aide answered. Lord Wellington’s grip on my fingers stiffened.
“What is the King’s Bench?” I asked.
“The high court of England and her monarch. Currently, the Prince Regent, although he rarely attends. This way.” He set off, fortunately at a fast pace so I could burn off nervous energy.
Like my last visit, we passed through antechambers and halls, but instead of gowned, frowning lawyers, we saw hurrying officers with grave faces. I was accompanied by the commander of England’s armies, so every man bowed, sometimes with a hand at their brow in the formal military salute.
We reached an oversized pair of doors. Two guards in braid-trimmed uniforms swung them wide to reveal an even more imposing courtroom.
The War Secretary sat at the elevated judges’ bench.
He was dressed in his usual conservative day attire, but he was flanked by two judges in robes and wigs.
Twenty other gentlemen, sporting a selection of graying whiskers and straining waistcoats, were scattered in the area for counsel and court staff, some standing, some sitting.
Loud, bickering voices halted when the doors swung open. Heads turned to us.
Lord Wellington did not move. He remained two paces from the threshold, studying the assembly. My heart beat a half-dozen times before he said softly, “Remember that I am with you.”
“Is that intended to reassure me?” I whispered back.
He walked in without answering. I followed, lagging while I searched the room for Darcy. I looked twice. He was not here.
The gentlemen scurried aside as if we were contagious, but Lord Wellington took no notice. He stopped in the center of the court and addressed the War Secretary. “You requested our presence.”
The War Secretary nodded. “Lord Wellington. The full War Council is assembling, and His Royal Highness will grace us as well. Please take a seat. Our interest is in your companion.” He looked at me and sprouted an immense smile. “Mrs. Darcy. We appreciate you attending.”
“I was summoned,” I said. For the first time since I woke, my sea of bleak guilt mixed with hotter emotions. Distrust. Suspicion. “I expected my husband to be present. Where is Mr. Darcy?”
The War Secretary gave a magisterial chuckle. “Ah. We get right to it, then. That is for the best.”
The crowd of gentlemen settled into chairs with creaks from aged wood and arthritic knees. Lord Wellington stayed standing beside me, but I could read nothing in his posture.
“Where is Mr. Darcy?” I asked again.
“Your husband is nearby,” the War Secretary replied. “But the news I must reveal is shocking.” His over-broad smile folded into stern concern. “Please sit, Mrs. Darcy. Fainting or hysterics would be natural.”
The next time Mary stomped into Chathford House muttering about the male establishment, I would sympathize more. But for now, my distrust sharpened. “Say your news. If you are overcome by hysterics, I shall sit while you recover.”
Disapproving whispers skated across the audience.
The War Secretary scowled and adopted a solemn and official tone.
“As His Royal Highness’s agent, I speak for the Court of the King’s Bench.
Mrs. Darcy, you are present as an innocent, and you are charged with no crime.
But you have been manipulated and made a pawn.
Fortunately, the harm can be repaired with swift action.
” When I said nothing, he resumed, “Your husband, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, has betrayed England. He is charged with treason.”
Despite Lord Wellington’s warning, that word, treason, was a shock. Then common sense returned. “My husband would never commit treason.”
“He was arrested this morning for refusing to surrender the King’s property to the Crown in time of war.”
A part of my tension drained. At least I was not opposing Darcy. “Is that the purpose of this theater of intimidation? To claim Yuánchi?”
The War Secretary unfolded a paper and squinted at it.
“That is the name of the creature. But the court sympathizes with the predicament of a young wyfe, freshly married and eager to serve her husband. You, Mrs. Darcy, are held harmless for your husband’s transgression.
In fact, the law protects you. Your husband’s commands were unlawful, so you may do your duty.
Your service can both aid your country and save your husband. ”
I was angry now, but was this sensible anger or the onset of madness? I chanced a look at Lord Wellington. He had been watching me, and our gazes barely grazed before he turned to the War Secretary. “Lord Castlehurst, may we speak privately? This is poorly done. And unwise.”
The War Secretary ignored him and pronounced, “Mrs. Darcy. As a bound wyfe, you have influence over the creature known as Yuánchi. If you are able to summon it to His Majesty’s service, the scales will tip toward leniency. In time, you may enjoy a happy reunion with—”
Clearly, being angry was perfectly sane.
“Deliver Yuánchi for leniency? Sir, your words corrupt decency and common sense. There is no man more honorable or loyal than my husband. You presume in announcing his guilt. And when you claim a dragon as if he were any person’s property, you reveal profound ignorance. ”
Lord Wellington broke in even more urgently. “Henry! This is madness, and it is dangerous. Darcy is no traitor—” Another gentleman protested, the War Secretary thumped his fist, and an argument erupted.
For a moment, I stood ignored in the ultimate court of England—even though I was guilty of killing a defenseless woman. But I was not the accused. Instead, this farce threatened an innocent man to force my compliance.
If my guilt drew judgment, so be it. But until then, guilt would not hobble me.
I closed my eyes, sinking into an awareness of draca that was shrouded in woolly silence. I concentrated, drawing my senses fully within. The bellow of men’s voices faded. The world turned eerily blank.
I prodded the barrier surrounding me. Pressure turned the wool into unyielding iron, but I recognized the sensation.
When I had first reached into the depths of Pemberley lake, Yuánchi had walled his self away for his centuries-long sleep.
Then, it had not been force that penetrated his resistance.
The strength of a human, even a great wyfe, was nothing to a dragon, but they cherished passion.
I stopped pressing and opened my heart. My love for Darcy—my fear for his safety—suffused a simple thought: Yuánchi, I need you.
Like a shutter cracking on a sunny day, a ray of his awareness streamed into my mind.
Child of the Lake. Why do you fear?
“They have taken my husband.”
The barrier fell away. Released, my mind fell with it, then was caught and drawn into a tremendous awareness. My senses exploded. My innermost self altered.
I was soaring over blue-and-pearl ocean, rising without effort as flight muscles, bruised but healing, rode a current-warmed thermal.
I banked with the lighter, wetter air, tracking the sun-violet compass through thin clouds until I faced west, and the multitude called London, and the tug of silver binding.
There was a pungent, fishy aftertaste in my mouth.
Enthralled by a hundred novel sensations, I thought, This is more than shared vision.
Yuánchi’s answer was realization, not speech. I have drawn our minds close so I will know if she reaches for you.
“If Fènnù tries to take me,” I whispered. Fear tinged my thoughts, then eased. I trusted Yuánchi.
My wings stroked. Descent quickened like a sled speeding down an endless hill. Air sang around my body in wind-cheating paths guided by the tensing of ridged scales.
I am coming, Yuánchi thought. Tell these men who have taken your husband. Tell them that you are a great wyfe.
I opened my eyes. A full dozen red-faced men were now shouting like children. Around me was wind. Below me were waves.
“Yuánchi is coming,” I announced firmly and rather louder than I had intended. Surprised silence fell.
The War Secretary turned gloatingly to Lord Wellington. “There! Mrs. Darcy is quite reasonable when isolated from selfish interests.” He turned to me, cloying as honey. “When Mr. Darcy is told of your service, he will thank—”
“Do not speak for my husband,” I said. “He and I will do our duty to England. But duty does not answer to a court that levies false charges as extortion. When Mr. Darcy is released, then I will speak with”—I turned pointedly to Lord Wellington—“honorable members of the Council to provide what aid we may.” The Thames rushed beneath my wings.
“But first, release Mr. Darcy. I suggest you hurry.”
The War Secretary’s brow furrowed. He said to Lord Wellington. “Have you put her up to this?”
Lord Wellington threw up his hands in disbelief. “Castlehurst, have you not heard a word I said? You sought a dragon that could lay waste to an army. That dragon is coming here.”
I spotted a door below the windows. “Does that go to the yard?” I walked toward it.
“You do not have permission to leave!” the Secretary shouted.
A portly, gray-haired gentleman harrumphed and stepped into my path. He grasped my wrists, and I stopped, astonished that a gentleman would physically accost me. I tried to pull free, and the gentleman pulled back—a stalemated tugging match.
But our contest summoned a memory. My father’s battle-hardened hands once held me this same way. But not to restrain me.
It had been a lesson: