Page 70 of King's Man

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You are accused of the murder of one Thomas Taylor, a footman to Lord Marlborough, employed at Marlborough Castle.” He glanced up. “A serious allegation. What have you to say to the charge?”

“That I’m not guilty of it, sir. And that the man who accuses me is a liar.”

At that, a general murmuring broke out in the courtroom. Speaking over it, the magistrate said, “You are accused by John MacLeod, The Baron Marlborough — a peer of the realm. Are you calling him a liar, sir?”

Sam looked over and found MacLeod staring at him. The last time Sam had seen him, he’d been wearing nothing but his shirtsleeves and breeches, raging like a madman. Now he wore a yellowing old wig beneath which gimlet eyes arrowed in on Sam with murderous intent. His fleshy face over-spilled his cravat and Sam recoiled from the memory of him murdering Taylor in cold blood. Sam straightened his shoulders, refusing to be cowed by this bacon-fed bully. He turned to face the magistrate. “Yes, sir, I am. And that’s the least of his crimes.”

Uproar. MacLeod was on his feet shouting “Calumny!” while the drudge next to him — Farris, Sam guessed — tried to make him sit back down. Court officials yelled for silence and through it all Sam watched Nate, who sat stock still and stared straight ahead. What he was thinking, Sam couldn’t tell.

At last order was restored, MacLeod was persuaded back into his seat and the magistrate said, “Hutchinson, you’ll refrain from making accusations against others. We are here to hear the case againstyou.” He tapped the sheaf of papers in his hand. “We have Lord Marlborough’s account of events. Have you any evidence to prove your innocence?”

“I — No, sir. Only my word.”

At that MacLeod snorted loudly and the magistrate favored him with a sharp look before saying to Sam, “Any witnesses in your defense?”

“No, sir. None who can speak freely, at any rate.”

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning what? Any may speak freely here. At Bow Street, we welcome evidence from the people, from any man — or woman — who has information pertinent to the matter at hand. All witnesses are heard.”

“I thank you,” Sam said, “but in this case, it’s not possible.”

Another snort from MacLeod. “And if that don’t prove the blighter guilty, I don’t know what does, eh?” A few murmured agreements drifted down from the public gallery.

“Thank you, my lord,” the magistrate said, “but we are not here to prove guilt, only to determine whether there is a case to answer.”

“Well, the blasted footman’s dead,” MacLeod said. “What more do you damn well need?”

The magistrate gave a terse bow of acknowledgment to MacLeod and turned back to Sam. “If you can provide no alibi, nor any evidence in your favor, nor any witness to speak for you…?”

Helplessly, Sam turned to Nate, just as he’d done that long-ago night in Rosemont. And, like that night, Nate looked back silently. He sat with his jaw locked and his hands clenched in his lap. Motionless. Part of Sam longed for him to leap to his defense, to stand with him as friend and ally, just as he’d longed for it when Amos Holden had him on his knees. But a greater part of him flinched from the idea, horrified by the thought of Nate incriminating himself.

After a pause, the magistrate said, “Mr. Hutchinson, have you a witness?”

“No.” He kept his gaze on Nate as he spoke, saw his eyes close briefly, lips thinning. “I prefer not to call any witness.”

“Then I am sorry for you, but I cannot dismiss this case. Therefore, Mr. Hutchinson, you will be taken to Newgate Gaol, there to await trial for murder.”

Nate didn’t react, didn’t move an inch. Perhaps, like Sam, he’d expected nothing else with MacLeod as the accuser. The verdict would prove equally predictable.

Someone took Sam’s arm, pulling him away from the bar. “Come on, the wagon’s waiting.”

A sudden rush of panic seized him. Once he left the court, he’d never see Nate again. Never in his life would he see that beautiful, precious face. “No!” He pulled his arm free, opened his mouth to call Nate’s name, but stopped himself in time. He dared not betray their connection, not in front of Farris and MacLeod. “Marlborough!” he called instead. “Marlborough, you bastard!”

MacLeod’s head turned, jowls wobbling. But Nate turned too, thank God, dark eyes stark in his ashen face.

“Shut your bloody mouth,” the guard growled, hustling Sam towards the door.

Helplessly, he struggled, desperate to go to Nate, to hold him one last time. To say goodbye. But it was impossible. In agony, their gaze met across the court — Oh God, this is it, this is the end — Sam’s eyes filled, Nate blurred in his vision, and then he was out through the door and Nate was hidden from him.

An unmanly sob choked out, burning his chest. He scarcely knew where he was being taken, soaked in misery and his face wet with tears. Oh God, Nate was gone. He’d never see him again. Someone bound his hands with rope, and he was led out into the yard behind the court. Blinking in the daylight, he saw that a prison wagon awaited, other convicts slumped sullenly within its iron cage. He recognized Groves perched next to the driver, but Sam didn’t have time to say anything before he was bundled roughly up the steps and into the wagon. The guard locked the cage door behind him.

Then, finally, the first sliver of fear penetrated his misery. He swallowed hard, wiping his eyes on the cuff of his sleeve. God, would he ever see sunlight again? The suffocating memory of Simsbury Mine swept over him and he began to panic, his lungs tightening, guts turning to water. Not again. He couldn’t endure it again. He’d go mad in the dark.

The wagon lurched forward, jolting him as the driver turned the horses toward the wide gate that led out to the street. Sam had to grab the bars with both bound hands to keep from falling.

A crowd had gathered outside the court, drawn as people were by the entertainment of their neighbors’ misfortune. Ruthlessly, Sam tamped down his dread and kept his head held high, staring down anyone who jeered at him, refusing to give the gawkers their pleasure. He could easily bear the mocking taunts of strangers. Last time he’d been driven away in the back of a wagon, the mob had been his neighbors, their anger had been deadly, and Nate had been watching.

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