Chapter 44: Knighthood

Warren rose from behind the prosecution’s desk and adjusted his cuffs. “Let us first establish the facts.” He took a sheet of paper and glanced down at it. Clara scoffed at his usual trick.

“After a commemorative banquet at the Westwick Plaza hosted by Claves Academy, Sir Ricardo, a knight serving House von Rhenia’s military with the rank of major, was found dead in Dame Rowena Morgan’s room, with a short sword buried in his throat.”

He turned to the gallery. “Dame Rowena is a knight of the Order of the Wolf, in service of the Second Prince. The sword that struck Ricardo bears the golden wolf of the royal household.”

Several spectators glanced at Rowena with disapproval. The knight kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Clara wanted to find something to object to, but Warren had remained remarkably to the point here, compared to how he was in Professor Morris’s case.

“This was a heinous crime, and it snuffed out the life of one of the most promising knights of his generation. Yet despite its brutality, you will also find that this is a simple crime. The prosecution will show that no one but the accused could be responsible.” Warren turned to the bishop. “Your Excellency, may we proceed with the Blessing of Truth?”

“Go ahead.”

“Tobias, if you would.”

The young inquisitor-in-training stepped forward with the wooden chest. When he got close to Rowena, he set it down and lifted the silver chalice. Then he chanted the familiar words, “In vino veritas.”

The wine glowed, and he held the chalice out to Rowena. She looked down at it for a long moment, then clumsily accepted it with her shackled hands. She drank without hesitation, and the golden light bloomed from her chest, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“The Blessing has taken hold,” said the bishop. “Dame Rowena, you are now bound to speak only the truth until the interrogation concludes. Prosecutor Righton, you may begin.”

Warren walked to the center of the room and faced the witness stand. He stopped farther away from Dame Rowena than he had from Morris or the other witnesses.

I suppose the usual witness can’t snap someone in half, shackles or no shackles.

“State your full name and title for the court.”

“Rowena Morgan. Dame of the Order of the Wolf. Personal knight to His Highness Prince Ciarán Ó Conail Mhór.”

“And for how long have you served His Highness?”

“Nine years. Since the boy was five years old.”

Warren paced slowly and with confidence. He was building a foundation like a modern lawyer, just as he had with Professor Morris; if he were an inquisitor, he would just have asked her if she did it and left it at that. Clara wasn’t sure when the attack would begin, but it was bound to be soon.

“Before that appointment, where did you serve?”

“The Royal Garda. I served at the capital for three years after completing my training with the Order.”

“An impressive record. And Dame Rowena, you are the reigning champion of the Grand Tournament, are you not?”

“I am.”

“And in your time as His Highness’s personal knight, how many matches, tournament or exhibition, have you fought?”

“Objection,” said Clara immediately. She could already see where Warren was going, and she did not like it. “The accused’s combat history is immaterial to this trial.”

“It speaks to motive, Your Excellency,” countered Warren. “Both the accused and the victim are knights. The prosecution is entitled to explore whether their knighthoods are relevant to the case.”

The bishop nodded. “I am inclined to agree. The accused shall answer.”

Rowena’s brow furrowed, and the blessing pulsed in her chest. “I have fought one hundred and forty-four official matches in a tournament or exhibition setting.”

“Of those, how many did you win?”

The reply came instantly. “One hundred and nineteen.”

“And how many were draws?”

“Twenty-four.”

Woah. Clara was genuinely impressed. So Ciarán really wasn’t exaggerating when he said he didn’t think Rowena could lose. But also, this was terrible for her case.

Warren smirked. “One hundred and nineteen plus twenty-four… Dame Rowena, if I have done my math correctly, that means you only lost one match. Please tell the court which one.”

Rowena clenched her fists before answering. “My duel with Sir Ricardo two days ago. The exhibition match before the Claves student tournament.”

Warren let the answer sit for a moment before continuing. “Had you fought Sir Ricardo before?”

“Yes. This was our third duel.”

“It must have been quite upsetting to have such an impeccable streak of victories broken. Especially by someone whom you had defeated before.”

Clara slammed the desk with both hands at the same time. The crack of her palms on wood had a satisfying echo—more so than during the last trial. Had her desk-slamming skills improved after coaching Iris? Was that even a thing?

She cleared her throat. “I object. This is not a neutral question. The prosecution is attempting to lead the witness to a predetermined answer.”

“Mm.” The bishop looked thoughtfully at Rowena. “Prosecutor Righton, please rephrase your question.”

Warren frowned for just a second. “Of course, Your Excellency. Dame Rowena, how did you feel after losing the match to Sir Ricardo?”

“Well, I didn’t like it. I was very frustrated. It showed me just how much I needed to improve my technique.”

“Very frustrated,” Warren repeated. “Let us turn to the events of Saturday evening. You attended the banquet at the Westwick Plaza, correct?”

“I did.”

“And during that banquet, you consumed a significant amount of alcohol?”

“Yes. With my size, I need to drink a lot to feel anything.”

“And yet you did, in fact, ‘feel something’ that night, did you not? The guards collected statements from several attendees who reported you were visibly intoxicated.”

Rowena frowned. “Yes. The drink was stronger than I expected.”

“You were considerably drunk, from what I understand. In fact, you were so inebriated that you required physical assistance from another guest simply to walk back to your room. Is that correct?”

“That is true. The priest helped me.”

Looks like Warren has done his homework. I’m not sure whether I should feel happy or afraid that he’s not relying solely on the Blessing.

“Did Sir Ricardo also drink?”

“Yes, he did. But not as much as me. At least not until I left.”

Warren turned slightly toward the gallery, ensuring his next question would land with full effect. “Dame Rowena, during the banquet, did you challenge Sir Ricardo to a wrestling match?”

“I did. He turned me down.”

“What exactly did you say to him after you challenged him?”

A sense of dread swelled up inside Clara. She didn’t remember exactly what Rowena’s words were, but she knew the knight had been quite aggressive in her insistence.

Rowena closed her eyes. The golden light pulsed twice. “I said, ‘I’ll have my revenge.’”

Goddess damn it.

The murmurs from the gallery were instant. Conrad leaned forward in his seat, and the duchess tightened her grip on his arm. Iris was openly glaring at Clara now. And on the other side, Ciarán was getting progressively paler. The bishop brought down his gavel, and when the murmurs died down, he seemed pleased to confirm the trick had worked again.

Warren’s smirk slowly disappeared, and his bearing turned serious. “Tell us what happened after you got to your room.”

“The priest helped me to my bed and wished me good night. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

“And then?”

“I woke up. Ricardo was in my room.” The golden light pulsed. “He was standing near the foot of my bed, and he started talking to me. Angrily.”

Warren pursed his lips. Whatever came next would be new information—under the Blessing, Rowena would be able to clear up what she’d forgotten during her questioning. “What was Sir Ricardo saying?”

Rowena’s shackled hands gripped the railing of the witness stand. “He was mocking me. Saying that the duel had proven what everyone already knew: that I was nothing more than a brute. An embarrassment of a knight. And then he started insulting Ciarán.”

Conrad shot up in his seat, and Duchess Adelheid had to pull him down. Clara, too, felt an impulse to object, to say something in defense of Ricardo’s honor. Even though she’d only been in this world for a few months, she knew him well enough to see how out of character that was.

And yet, Rowena was under the Blessing of Truth.

Rowena’s voice dropped, and there was a tremor in it that Clara hadn’t heard before. The Blessing was pulling things together that Rowena had only half-grasped before, and the knight was not pleased. “He said—”

She stopped. The golden light flared brighter. “He said that the boy was a stain on the royal bloodline. That no piece of paper signed by the King could make him a real prince. And that it suited a knight like me to play nursemaid to the Kingdom’s shame.”

Ciarán buried his face in his crossed arms. Helena gave him a look of genuine concern and whispered something in Lochlann’s ear, and the Crown Prince shook his head.

“How did you respond?”

“I yelled back. Told him to stop, or I would make him. I tried to grab him, to push him, but I just ended up knocking things around the room. And he kept taunting me. So I drew my short sword.” Rowena’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I was still half-drunk, and I could barely stand, but I remember the rage I felt when I stabbed it upward. I expected him to parry, to dodge, to do something. But he just… stood in place.”

What? Why would Ricardo just stand there? Sure, he’d also had a lot to drink, but Clara knew how capable he was—his reflexes were honed almost to perfection, and he’d manage to evade her attempts to shove and grapple. And Rowena herself admitted that she could barely stand. Surely it wouldn’t have taken a sword master to move out of her way.

“He didn’t draw his weapon?” Warren pressed.

“No. He didn’t move at all. The blade went in. It was all so… easy. He fell down, and there was blood everywhere. Then I—” Rowena’s breath hitched. “I tried to reach for him. To stop the bleeding. But I collapsed, and then there was nothing until I woke up the day after. I must have passed out.”

Clara knew this was coming, but hearing Rowena confess wasn’t easy. Not only because, as her defense lawyer, that would make the case much harder—she might have to switch to arguing mitigating factors, trying to get a more lenient sentence—but also because of what it meant for her. She had abandoned House von Rhenia to defend Ricardo’s killer.

She pressed her hands against her cheeks. It wasn’t the time to think of that. She was a lawyer representing a client in court. It was her duty to look at the case from every angle and ensure that no stone was left unturned. And despite the confession, this case still had plenty of unanswered questions.

“Dame Rowena,” said Warren gravely. “You are an experienced knight. From what you know, was the blow you dealt to Ricardo deadly?”

Rowena’s fingers wrapped around the railing of the witness stand so tightly that cracks started forming. Clara was worried the stand would break apart, but the knight took a deep breath and stopped. “Yes. It was a clean stab through his throat.”

“Thank you, Dame Rowena.” Warren turned to the bishop. “Your Excellency, the facts speak clearly. The accused, fueled by resentment over her defeat and inflamed by heavy intoxication, attacked the victim in a fit of rage when he provoked her. The murder weapon, found buried in the victim’s throat, is hers. Blood was found on her hands. And now she has confessed.”

The bishop stroked his beard as he listened, and Warren returned to the prosecution’s desk, sitting down with his legs crossed. “The floor is yours, Counsel Casewell.”

Clara’s mind was racing, trying its best to reconcile things that appeared contradictory.

Ricardo was kind and honorable, and from everything Clara knew about him, he would not have uttered the words Rowena said he did. And yet he apparently had.

Ricardo was a formidable knight. He’d proven as much in his match against Dame Rowena. And yet he’d stood still as a sword was plunged into his throat.

How could these things possibly be true at the same time?

Clara rose and walked carefully to the center of the room.