Complete works of a e w.., p.704
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 704
The February light waned; the lamps were lit; pools of black shadow lay here and there upon the benches and the well of the Court; against the wainscot the faces of the jury showed white like waxen masks; and when the Lord Chief Justice leaned forward to ask a question or make a comment, his strong face looked fiery red against the candle of his desk. To many in that Sessions House, as to Anthony’s neighbour, a grim drama was being played out to its close in an apt and gloomy setting. No one could foretell the issue. Amongst all, expectation was on tiptoe. Question and answer were followed with a tension which now and then found relief in an uproar. Sooner or later the decisive stroke would fall. Would it be now? Some unanswerable challenge? Or some fatal slip due to fatigue? Or perhaps some new evidence which could not be gainsaid and had been held back to the one deadly moment?
But to one in the Court the dramatic give-and-take was of no account. Anthony brought a fuller knowledge than most of the spectators to the trial. He had not a doubt of Königsmark’s guilt; and every honest element in his own nature, every tradition of the stable body of landed squires to which he belonged, clamoured for a conviction. Anthony was not concerned to choose between Karl John Count Königsmark and Tom Thynne of Longleat. He resented the insolence which had swollen a foreigner into thinking that he could use the laws of England for his convenience and pleasure. No, sentence first, then punishment, be he Norroy of all Christendom!
Thus one side of Anthony. Another and a gentler one pleased for a year’s great friendship and for a communion of dreams and half-seized visions which had lifted the edges of a curtain upon a lovelier world than he had ever imagined.
He was torn between these moods when the neighbour strained his head forward with a jerk.
“It is so, to be sure,” he said, rather to himself than to Anthony. “All turns upon the Polander in the end.”
Anthony was startled. He had heard just the same conjecture from Philip, and now the man at his elbow brought the experience of many trials to confirm it. He had been, to tell the truth, growing a little drowsy what with the heat and the staleness of the air. But he was wide awake now. Sir Francis Winnington had taken up the attack himself. He stood at the bench below Anthony with his face turned upwards towards Königsmark, and Königsmark stood at the corner of the dock with his face very watchful. He was bending forward, his forearms resting on the rail and his hair rippling over his shoulder and pale grey of his sleeve. Sir Nathaniel Johnson, the interpreter, stood in the well of the Court translating as exactly as he could the questions and the answers to the jury. But more often than not reply followed upon question far too swiftly and in words too precise and sharp for him to reproduce in a foreign tongue. Happily, no one was paying the slightest attention to him except, perhaps, as a tolerated annoyance; and Königsmark, though it had been decreed that he should speak High Dutch, answered frequently in English and flung a word or two in French at the foreigners on the jury to explain it.
Sir Francis Winnington was bitter and passionate.
“I am granting you Captain Vratz, Count Königsmark. The faithful retainer ready with a sword and a lie to strike for the honour of his family. He’s of the purest romance.”
“He is a man,” said Königsmark.
“Aye, the noblest fellow whom you’ve cozened to his death,” replied Sir Frances savagely.
“You have not one fact to prove it,” said Königsmark distinctly, and my Lord the Chief Justice interrupted: “But you granted him Captain Vratz, Sir Frances. We all heard you.”
“Yes, my Lord, I do,” said the Solicitor-General, taking a hold upon himself. Then his arm shot out: “But what of the man at your elbow, Count Königsmark? Boroski! Look at him well! Let the jury see you side by side!”
Indeed they made the strangest contrast, the favourite of the great Courts of Europe and the brute, a degree above the styes.
“You’ll have some other fable to tell us of him.”
Königsmark did not change his attitude by the fraction of an inch; nor did his face alter. But throughout the Sessions House there was a little stir, from the Monmouth men broke a jeer, and then all was hushed again.
“You brought the Polander over to England from Hamburg.”
“It is true.”
“He was seven weeks upon the way.”
“Yes.”
“And when he came to you you bought him a campaign coat.”
“He was shipwrecked and thought to be drowned. He had little enough to wear when he reached London.”
“And through Hanson you bought him with great expedition a sword from a cutler, Thomas Howgood of Charing Cross.”
“I did not know who was the cutler,” Königsmark returned, and since Sir Francis Winnington had announced the name and address with a great deal of emphasis, as though it were of the utmost important, the calm reply raised a little titter amongst the Königsmark party.
“It was an extraordinary good sword.”
“It cost me two shillings.”
“It had a basket hilt. It was a horseman’s sword, two fingers broad, such as gentlemen of the guards wear.”
“Very like,” said Königsmark, and the Chief Baron of the Exchequer interposed with a question asked in a harassed voice: “But why must he have such a strong basket-hilted sword furnished him within the day?”
Königsmark had had three interpreters appointed to him, and it was one of the others who took Karl John’s reply and translated it.
“It was no more, he says, than what servants of his bulk and making, use to wear.”
Sir Nathaniel Johnson, however, was not content. He must add a little more on his own account.
“And, he says, all the servants of gentlemen in Germany wear such swords.”
Lord Chief Justice Pemberton smiled amicably, as though he wanted just this extra piece of information to satisfy him.
“You know it yourself, Sir Nathaniel Johnson,” he said. “You have travelled there.”
Johnson drove the nail in with yet another stroke.
“Yes, my Lord, they do; and the Poles much broader and greater broadswords than the others.”
Sir Francis had certainly not scored a gold with this arrow, but he was unwilling to acknowledge that it had but pierced one of the outer circles.
“The sword was bought on the Saturday night,” he cried, leaning forward and thumping on his desk with his fist, “and on the Sunday night Mr Thynne was murdered!”
“With a musquetoon,” said Königsmark quietly.
“By your servant.”
“By Vratz’s servant.”
And the Solicitor-General shot back. He was growing wary of his antagonist, as much on account of the readiness of his mind as on the favour shown to him by his Judges. Here was a new trap set for him it seemed.
“What is this?” he asked. “You sent for the Polander to Hamburg.”
“Yes.”
“Yet he is Vratz’s servant?”
“On the Sunday,” Königsmark returned imperturbably. “Boroski was delayed on his journey, being seven weeks at sea. When he arrived I had no such occasion for him as when I wrote for him and saw no reason to keep him. I bought such things as were fitting for him and gave him away.”
The explanation was a little too steep even for Chief Baron Montagu of the Exchequer. He blurted out with incredulity: “What, the next day after he comes over!”
“My Lord, it is a common thing in Germany,” answered Königsmark, “it may be, it may not be in England — to give a servant away if there is no occasion for him.”
Then Chief Justice Pemberton appealed to Sir Nathaniel Johnson who, as the Court had heard, had travelled in Germany.
“What say you, Sir Nathaniel Johnson?”
Sir Nathaniel fell not an inch below his opportunity.
“Yes, my Lord,” he explained smiling, “it is very frequent in Germany to give a servant away if there be no use for him, for these Polanders are like slaves,” and the very look of the Polander bore him out. For he turned from one to the other with so dull an eye and so meaningless a face that no one could dower him with the smallest spark of volition.
Sir Francis Winnington was stung to a sarcasm out of which he got no profit.
“You may observe, my Lord, how Sir Nathaniel, who is interpreter in the case is a witness, and argues for the prisoner too. We desire to take notice of Sir Nathaniel’s forwardness, for it may be a precedent in other cases.”
And at once the fiery Chief Justice broke out upon him, leaning out above his desk and shaking a forefinger in a righteous indignation.
“What! Do you talk of a precedent?” he bawled. “When did you see a precedent of a like trial of strangers who could not speak one word of English?” He flung himself back in his chair. “But you would fain have the Court thought hard for doing things that are extraordinary in this case.”
There followed a pause whilst the Solicitor-General shuffled his papers as though he were in two minds whether or no he should retire from the prosecution and leave it to his Juniors to make what they could of it. But he swallowed the provocation in the end and, turning to the Count, asked shortly: “Will you tell the Court for what occasion you brought Boroski into England?”
And at Anthony Craston’s side, the man of the warehouse and the counting-room whispered with excitement: “Aye, that’s the question we are waiting for. Look to it, Mr Towhead, and make your answer positive. For your neck’s on it!”
Anthony looked about him. Wherever a face was visible it was turned eagerly and intently upon the dock. There was a hush as though the throng had but one throat to breathe with and held its breath. Even Monmouth’s friends were silent. Here was the question of questions flashing out of the medley of accusation and denial and manoeuvring and sarcasm and reproof. No favouritism could hide it away. Königsmark must stand stark to it. Why had he sent for Boroski, the man more animal than man — who had held the musquetoon and pulled the trigger?
Königsmark was perhaps the only one at that moment quite at his ease. “He is a groom. He was recommended to me from Hamburg as a groom able more than most to dress horses in the German fashion.”
“Why did you, my Lord, a sick man who must keep to his room, need a groom to dress horses in the German fashion?”
“Early in December,” Königsmark answered, “I heard that a peace between England, Sweden and Holland was to be suddenly declared and the three kingdoms were to combine at once against the French.”
“It is a far cry, my Lord, from that dream of high policy to the sending for a groom who can dress horses in the German style,” said the Solicitor-General with a sneer.
“Not so far, sir,” replied Königsmark, “when you hear that my design was to raise a regiment of horse here for the service of the King of England.”
The reply was received with a great noise. There were exclamations of surprise, scoffs and loud jeers — no one had need to look for the corner of the Court from which they came — and a swelling tribute of applause. England never had so many friends abroad that she would refuse a warm welcome to a new one. And the plan had this to commend it to his hearers as true. It was a Königsmark plan. It was in the pedigree line of the Königsmark achievements. John Christoph who sacked Prague, Konrad Christoph who perished at the siege of Bonn, Karl John himself and his uncle the diplomat — all of them raised troops and commanded them and did not trouble their heads overmuch as to the corner of battle-scarred Europe in which they fought.
“I had sent over a thousand pistols to be answered by the merchants here, in order to buy horses,” Königsmark continued “when the alliance was sealed, but it all came to nothing, my Lord, and I needed neither the money nor the Polander.”
Sir Francis Winnington was taken aback by the statement. It was probable, it was natural, and he had not a fact to confute it. Whilst he paused, the Chief Justice Pemberton addressed Sir Nathaniel Johnson.
“Has my Lord any one here to prove it?”
In a silence so complete that the trial might have been over and the Court empty, Königsmark bent his head and whispered two words to the interpreter. No one caught the words, so quietly were they spoken though all ears were strained to catch them. Another second and Sir Nathaniel spoke them aloud: “My brother.”
They were hardly uttered before Philip was on his feet. He advanced to the front of the Court and stood there in the light of the candles, his face upraised to the Judges on their dais.
“My Lord I have a Bill of Exchange,” he said simply in a clear young voice which reached to every corner; and he held a little forward in his hands, that Bill drawn upon Messrs Bucknell and Gowre which Hanson had thrust upon him in the common-room of Monsieur Faubert’s Academy on the night when Thynne was murdered.
The effect of the boy’s intervention upon those present in the Court was startling and unmistakable. In that ill-lit place of shadows, little was seen of him below the shoulders, but he stood between two lamps set upon desks and the light showed up as in a golden halo the pale and delicate beauty of his face, the dark- brown hair rippling over his shoulders, the eager parted lips, the wistful appeal of his eyes. To most there was something mystical in the grace of his presence. He was wearing a coat of blue velvet, very dark, like the blue of old Cathedral glass, with a white cravat in a bow at his throat, and he seemed to have stepped down from a Minster window, or out of the illuminated page of a missal — a spirit, an angel come at the end of so much thrust and parry, so much adroit and ingenious argument to clear all doubt away and make the truth known. The young timbre of his voice gave to what he said a purity and a candour not to be gainsaid. Thus in some remote chapel high amongst the hills, a young and saintly knight might have gleamed for a moment before the candles of the altar in the eyes of all the worshippers and vanished, never again to be forgotten.
Those who care to read the text of this old trial will see that neither Judge nor Counsel sought to put the lad upon his oath. What he said was said from this spot in the well of the Court, clear answer to question gently put, and no one doubted, no one demurred.
There were two, however, on the high back bench of the City Lands who escaped the contagion of that emotional moment. The old merchant was thrilled and delighted, but as one may be thrilled and delighted by some superb device in the crisis of a play. This was the decisive stroke, swift and sudden, which rounds all off and sends the audience home in amazed content. The retired merchant chuckled under his breath. He looked from Königsmark in the well of the Court to Königsmark in the dock and gazed at the prisoner with admiration. That man might rage through Europe like a flame through a field of corn, capture ships single-handed, ride with a noble lady for his page — all these ornaments of the old Troubadours left him unaffected. But this subtle piece of stage management, as he conceived it to be, fired him with enthusiasm. The closing hour of a great trial, the little pools of yellow light in a place of gloom and shadows, and this sudden apparition of a gracious youth speaking vital words in a clear and melodious voice — there was enchantment in it. The merchant thumped his stick gently on the floor and turned a smiling face upon his companion.
But there was no enchantment there for Anthony Craston. He sat with his hands clenched between his knees and his eyes fixed upon his friend with a look of horror. He saw all that his neighbours saw and he too would never forget it. But side by side with this actual picture of red-robed Judges, white faces staring out of darkness, and the young knight, brilliant with the colours of a missal, there hung in his mind a companion painting of a tutor sternly teaching precise words and sentences to a perplexed and troubled boy in a rich white velvet dress who but an hour before had returned from His Grace of Richmond’s rout.
Anthony did not need to put forth any effort to recollect the words. For he heard them now spoken for a second time and spoken without an error.
The Lord Chief Justice leaned forward, his strong lined face one smile, his voice the cooing of a dove.
“You received a Bill of Exchange? For how much, my Lord?”
“For a thousand pistols.”
“Where and when was the Bill drawn?”
“At Strasburg. On the sixth day of December.”
The Chief Justice lifted his head and looked towards the jury with a nod. Let them take note of that date! In the early days of December the conclusion of an alliance between the three countries was as predictable as anything in politics could be.
“And on what date did you receive it, my Lord?”
Philip hesitated, caught at a date eagerly, and with regret shook his head. Three little movements, and each so exact in its expression that they might have been practiced before a mirror. Anthony told himself that they had been — so traitorous a hypocrite that his friend in this half-hour become!
“I can’t remember, milord, the day,” said Philip ruefully. “It was early in January.”
Anthony recollected in hot anger that Philip had been tutored to forget the day. “Boys have more interesting things like friendships” — yes, actually friendships— “and games and studies to fill their lives.”
Anthony was daunted by the fierce old Judge upon the bench, but at this moment he almost surmounted his fear. He cursed himself often enough for his cowardice afterward, in that he had not quite. He was shocked by the very success of the trick, of the duplicity which had planned it, and of the natural ease with which Philip was performing it. A young Saint from a church window! Very well! But a young Saint lying like a trooper. Better still, lying like a Königsmark. Craston’s heart and soul rose up against this insolent family which trampled over the laws and decencies of countries, as if, authorised by some unimpeachable parchment, it had right of way throughout the world. He had recognised but one circumstance common to the two brothers, poor fool that he had been! The Königsmarks were Ancient Pistols — the whole gang of them — young and old — from John Christoph who profaned the Prague Cathedral to young Philip who desecrated the laws of England.
