Court of Foxes (29 page)

‘There is one who will speak,’ said Gilda, ‘being not of your family — yet.’ And next morning she left the house, secretly, and presented herself at the door of the Trove mansion in Grosvenor Street — almost as huge and quite as dull, she thought, as its neighbour in Hanover Square — and sent up her name. The servant returned. ‘I regret, milady. Milord, the Earl of Trove has nothing to say to the Marchesa d’Astonia Subeggio.’

She stood, grey-blue eyes huge in a face now shadowed with her anxieties. She repeated stupidly: ‘Nothing to say?’

‘I regret, milady. That was the message.’

Nothing to say. But suddenly the Marchesa d’Astonia had something to say, after all: and was Marchesa no longer but Madam Vixen in a snarl of bitter rage. ‘Then take a message back. What has my lord to say to Marigelda, Slut and Strumpet — the future Countess Tregaron?’

That brought him. Trembling, ashen-faced. ‘What does this mean, Madam? My daughter is the future Countess Tregaron. Lord Tregaron is betrothed, he has given his word.’

‘He gave his word before he knew me. He has kept to it while I have been unavailable — unavailable as a wife, I mean!’ She said sweetly, viciously: ‘It’s for you to judge, my lord, having seen him in his part as happy son-in-law to be, whether his enthusiasm for the marriage will keep him to it, once I am set free. And only the testimony of your daughter and your daughter’s servant can set me free: for if they give it, I am a widow — my husband dies.’ And she spent no more time on him, but went to the door and called peremptorily to the footman to show her out. The Earl caught the whisk of her skirts and a backward, taunting glance as, old, dazed, stupid with the shock of it, he blundered through the great hall to his daughter’s room.

No evidence would be given by the Trove faction, at Gareth y Cadno’s trial.

T
HE DAY OF THE TRIAL
. Trembling, she went with them, with his friends, arraigning herself unashamedly with his gang of ruffians, the women rigged out in stolen finery from a dozen plunderings, that accorded ill with their strong, wiry bodies and weather-worn faces, their rough brown hands; the men unmannered, raucous, ill-controlled. She had seen nothing of Y Cadno since the day of the escape plot; the crush and stench of the corridor outside his cell made her ill, queasy as her stomach was from her pregnancy; she sent messages but she could not go. The gang from their visits reported him to her as still high of courage — and yet always with an odd exchange of glances that puzzled her. On the day of the trial, however, he would receive no one at all; she contented herself with sending in a new coat and fresh linen. The coat was of russet silk, the colour of a fox’s pelt: Y Cadno he is, she thought, and Y Cadno he shall be seen to be — bright-eyed and brave and clever and strong, fit to out-wit them all yet, base packs of dogs as they are that try to hunt him down…

A voice cried out and another voice from the cavernous cells beneath the court; and into the dock came two dirty tipstaffs, shambling, ill-shaven, armed with their heavy sticks. And between them…

A flash of russet brown, of white lace foaming: a dark head bent, hair caught back into its black velvet bow. A roar rose up in the court and she cried out with the rest, her voice high above theirs, and uncovered her head so that he might pick her out in the crowd and know that she was there with him. ‘Gareth! Gareth y Cadno!’ And waited for the flash of the bold, dark eyes, the old wicked, half savage, half tender smile. But — he did not lift his head, lolling there between the two men, hands blindly seeking the support of the wooden rail of the dock. She thought, He’s dissembling…! It was a new plot, he was acting a part, would break out suddenly, throw the men aside, leap the high box, be off through the stifling mob in the court and away… But she knew that it was not so; and she remembered the half-bewildered, half wretched looks of the gang when they had returned that first time after the escape plot had failed, all the times since, when they had been to visit him; and Catti saying, quick and sharp then and on each other occasion that he had been high in courage. And the note that he had folded into her palm with what might well prove to have been his last kiss ‘Get me laudanum!’

When she came back to full recollection of where she was, David, Earl of Tregaron, was entering the box to give his evidence.

Useless to deny that he had been with his brother that night; useless to deny that his brother that night by a pistol shot had died. But as to who had fired — he could not say. The shot had come out of the darkness. That this man in the dock had fired it, he could not possibly swear. No, he could not swear that the man had
not
been present; he simply had no knowledge of it either way. The mob grew restless, called out noisily, began for a horrid moment to suspect that it might be balked of its prey; but he stood there, resolute, strong and adamant — he had not seen who fired.

‘My lord the Earl of Tregaron, your brother, was shot that night and so died; will you say that you did not see this man kill him?’

‘I have said it,’ said David. ‘I did not see him there.’

‘You yourself were taken prisoner and spent some weeks in the lair of the self-styled Fox—?’

‘I was held for some time. If it was his lair, I can only say that I never saw him there.’

Out of the mutterings of the crowd, voices were raised to cry Traitor! and the name of his brother; and jibing reminders that through his brother’s death he succeeded to the family wealth. He paid no heed to any of it. ‘I am here to speak the truth and the truth is that from start to finish, I saw nothing of this man.’

And the waiting woman — Blanche’s woman… From her place, squeezed in between Red Jenny and Hal the Hop, Gilda stood up suddenly; and having let herself be seen, as though re-settling herself sat down again. The woman gaped across the court at her with scared, gooseberry eyes; of his lordship and Lady Blanche, no sign.

The mutterings and rumblings grew louder, a tipstaff bawled threats into the court — crumbling on his bench, the old, grey judge sat hunched in his red gown and clutched to his offended nose the bunch of aromatic herbs. The woman stood waiting, trembling. The mob stared back at her with a universal threat.

But… Yes, she had been there that night. Mishandled? — yes. Mistreated? — yes. And her mistress also? — yes. Robbed? — yes. Had she seen the Earl of Tregaron die? Yes…

Yes, she had seen my lord die and his brother lie wounded in the road. But as to who had shot them — the weapon had been fired from the shadows, stammered the woman, whimpering, and of this man here, the prisoner, she had seen no sign.

From the dock he raised his head for the first time, shifted about him with a blearily triumphant eye; turned towards Gilda and the gang a look that said, dully, can there be hope after all? Crushed, jostled on the filthy benches, out of the blur of open mouths screaming curses, of fisted hands shaking as the woman was led away, they looked back at him, willing him back to courage and faith. And as the coachman and two footmen followed and the outriders in their turn, and — with whatever show of reluctance — offered the same testimony and ‘thought’ and ‘supposed’, but could not be persuaded to swear — he did indeed seem to come alive a little, shake away the cobwebs that clouded his brain; even for a moment as the last of the men sneaked away to the unrestrained execrations of the people, turned upon his friends a ghost of his own old bragadoccio smile…

For which smile, thought Gilda, I have sacrificed a great title, huge wealth, marriage, the future of my children… By working as I have to keep him from the gallows… David had been angry when he knew of her conversation with Blanche’s father; but had she been made free to marry — could they still have kept him to his engagement, after what she had said…?

Too late: for now it was done, the trial must be over — except for the woman and those four men in charge of the coach that night with Lady Blanche Handley, there could be no more witnesses. To be a highwayman, true, was a crime punishable by death; but what evidence had been given? — none — that this was in fact Gareth y Cadno, the highwayman. The charge was a charge of murder and only that. She caught at Catti’s hand and Red Jenny’s, leaned across to touch other hands held out to her in exultant relief. ‘There can be no more witnesses: he must be safe!’

A man was climbing up on to the witness stand: no, not a man — a youth, thin, nervous, looking about him with apprehensive shifting eyes. Thomas Wragg. Lately page in the household of the Earl of Trove; subsequently dismissed. Present in waiting upon her ladyship in the coach that night…

Gilda turned her head wildly. ‘There was none such present.’

‘Hush, hush, they’ll hear you! No,’ said Dio, heavily, ‘they’ve tricked us. There was none such there.’

‘If the Earl of Trove—’

‘It’s not the Earl; it’s the court. Do you think they haven’t prepared — lest the case go against them…?’

‘But can we not say—?’ she whispered back urgently.

‘How can we? To speak a word would be to confess that we were there. And since we’re known to be his friends…’ He was silent, wretchedly listening to the boy in the box.

Yes, Thomas Wragg had been present that night. Yes, he had seen the pistol fired and the Earl fall and his brother also. Yes, he had seen the man that held the pistol — by a trick of the moonlight what might have been shadowy to others, from where he stood, was clear. Yes, he had seen the trigger pulled. Yes, the man who had fired had come forth from the shadows and stood out clearly to be seen. Yes, it had been this man.

The thunder of the court rose up in her ears, the foetid stink overpowered her senses; the figure in the dock, slumped, half stupefied against the rail, blurred, grew to a pinpoint of whiteness, faded into utter darkness.

When she came-to again she was outside, in some cold corridor of dank stone, with her head in Jenny’s lap and voices whispering urgently together. Catti said: ‘She’s coming round,’ and a hand slapped none too gently at her cheeks. But reality was too terrible to be borne and she let herself slip into half-consciousness again; and, her name recurring in the whispered conversation above her head, lay still and forced herself to a secret alertness…

Something about herself. Something about Gareth. Jenny protesting, horrified, terrified; accepting at last. ‘But yet you said nothing, Catti—?’ ‘Dio forbade me.’ But now — to protect Y Cadno?’ ‘Y Cadno made him swear.’ ‘Yet Dio told
you
?’ ‘He told me that night, a-bed; am I not his woman?’ ‘But, Catti-now?’ And Jenny imploring and yet unsure of herself, Catti angry, rebellious, yet still in fear of Dio the Devil, rightly so named, though he could be so easy-going and kind. ‘If I dared, Jenny! But I dare not…’

Gilda lay very still; listened, and at last understood; moaned a little, moved, opened her eyes… And there came a clamour from the courtroom and they spared no more words but hauled her to her feet and forced their way back there, dragging her with them. The mob was on its feet, waving, huzza-ing, throwing up into the air dirty caps and battered hats, screaming exultation; unquestioning, unreasoning, stupid as beasts of prey scenting the smell of blood. The tipstaffs bawled for silence, in the dock the russet figure swayed and slumped in the clutch of the warders; Dio and his men were up on their bench howling defiance, the women blubbered with tears, screaming as loudly, hitting out with viciously flailing arms at those nearest to them in the crush.

Guilty!

She looked into Catti’s face, terrified, indecisive, deathly white; she looked at the half senseless figure, hanging forward from the arms of his gaolers, in the dock — and she thrust herself forward, fighting her way through the mob with beating fists and scratching nails, using the gold and ruby ring on her left hand as a weapon, and so came with torn dress, bruised face, disordered hair, at last to the witness stand; and unnoticed in the noise and fury all around her, climbed up and stood there, above them all, alone. In a doorway, the hunched old figure in the red gown was disappearing from sight. If she was to speak it must be before he was gone. She lifted her voice and above all their heads, above all the din, screamed out: ‘He’s innocent. It was I!’

In the doorway, beneath the upheld curtains, the old figure stiffened, turned. A hush fell upon the mob beneath her, all eyes turned upwards to the slender figure with its bulge of pregnancy, to the upflung hand imploring silence, to the radiance of her hair caught in the light that slanted down from the high windows, leaving all the rest in gloom. Into the hush she repeated it: ‘It was not he who shot the Earl of Tregaron. It was I.’

A tipstaff moved forward, shoving his way through the crowd, but the judge made a motion that held him back. The old, red-clad figure crept forward a little. The old rusty voice croaked out: ‘Madam — who are you?’

And she was back at the Cwrt: Miss Marigold Brown, the Marchesa d’Astonia no longer, but Madam Vixen of the Court of Foxes, who had laughed with him, dared with him, fought with him: found in his violent arms a wanton joy that made her blush to remember it. She said: ‘I am she whom they call the Vixen of the Court of Foxes.’

In the dock the limp figure stirred, seemed to struggle for words, mumbled out: ‘Madam — Vixen…?’

‘I am here, Gareth y Cadno — if you are Gareth y Cadno, and in this court not one word has been spoken that could prove it. But whoever you be, it was I who shot the Earl that night, and killed him. I confess it before the court. They must set you free.’

He raised his bleary eyes, focusing on the candlelight of her hair. He muttered and mumbled. ‘No… No…’ The judge said: ‘The youth Spragg — Sprigg — what was his name?’ — says it was the prisoner shot and killed Lord Tregaron.’

‘This creature, Spragg, my lord, was not present. He’s brought here falsely by the court.’ She stared across the upturned, gaping faces into the rheumy old eyes. ‘I know this fact; and that alone should prove to your lordship — for you know it also — that I was there that night. For I
was
there. I stood in the shadow as the women have described, and there was — was one who stood beside me. The Earl was at the horses’ heads and his brother, who gave witness here today.’ And she lifted her hands and ran them through the marigold gold of her hair so that it stood up around her head like a halo, an aureole. ‘In the moonlight, the Earl caught a glimpse of my hair — as you see it now, my lord, in the ray from the window — and spoke a word and they both levelled their weapons; and in defence of my life, sir, I fired. I fired first and then this — this other that was with me, he also fired. And the Earl dropped and soon after died; and David Llandovery was wounded, as you have heard from him today. But, my lord — it was I fired first; and Lord Tregaron was the first to fall.’