He’d quite forgotten about that business on their travels, relegating the coach spill to his collection of unwanted memories, and entirely disregarding the little turd who’d caused it. He certainly hadn’t considered the matter as he and Martin had made their desultory, unenthusiastic way towards Worcester: he’d had other things on his mind. It had been a miserable journey. Martin might have intended sympathy, but nothing he said had actually supplied it, and in any case he wasn’t Cassian. Daizell wanted Cassian so badly he felt sick with it, and couldn’t seem to come to terms with the fact that he didn’t exist.
They’d got off the stage at wherever it was, some place so trivial Daizell couldn’t even recall its name, because they were both fed to the back teeth of the journey and each other’s company, and who had they encountered but Mr Tom Acaster. Daizell hadn’t even noticed him. He’d spotted Daizell all right, and brought a constable.
Daizell had been promptly hauled before the local magistrate, one Sir Benjamin Acaster. That had gone as well as might be expected. Sir Benjamin had listened to his son’s complaint, ‘examined’ Daizell by bellowing abuse at him without letting him get a word in, and committed him to prison to await trial. And here he was in a cell, glaring alternately at the dirt-streaked lime-washed walls and the earthen floor, cold and damp and hungry, in expectation of a trial that was to be conducted by, wait for it, Sir Benjamin Acaster.
Which meant he was doomed. In a fair hearing he might point out the context of his assault on the young man, but he wasn’t going to have one of those, nor would there be anyone to appeal to. Magistrates were meant to sit in pairs, but the turnkey had informed him that Sir Benjamin sat alone, and liked it that way.
Sir Benjamin wouldn’t want to send Daizell to the Assizes, where he risked a more severe punishment but would at least get a hearing. Instead, he would use his powers of summary justice. That, as he had said with relish at the preliminary examination, meant a whipping. There would probably be a fine too, and since Daizell had no way to pay such a thing, he was inevitably looking at a spell in gaol as well.
Daizell wasn’t sure which prospect was the worst. He did not want to be whipped: the idea made him feel sick. He’d been caned at school and that had hurt, but whipping – he’d seen the mess that made of men’s backs, he was not stoic about bodily harm, and his gorge rose at the thought of the pain, the shame, the scarring.
He didn’t want to be a gaolbird either. He hadn’t conducted himself with any great righteousness throughout his adult life and was used to being a gentleman ofuncertain fortune and degraded reputation. But whipping and imprisonment meant a fall he’d probably never recover from.
This was it. This was the moment he stopped being a not-quite-gentleman and became a marked, degraded scoundrel. He’d broken the magistrate’s son’s nose because he was a stupid, thoughtless fool, and he was going to pay in blood and skin and pain, and nobody was going to help him. Martin probably would if he could, but he couldn’t, and Daizell had seen nothing of him since the arrest. Doubtless he had vanished away, like a sensible man. And nobody else in the wide world cared an iota for Daizell.
He wasn’t going to wonder if Cassian cared. He’d felt a panicked impulse to call on the Duke of Severn’s name in front of the magistrate, and choked it down. It wouldn’t work anyway: who’d believe him? How could he prove it, with Cassian miles away and Lord knew where? And he’d consigned Cassian to the devil so it wouldn’t be fair to drag him into this.
It wouldn’t be fair anyway. This was Daizell’s mess, self-created, self-inflicted. It was time he faced up to that, and to the fact that nobody else was going to bring order or certainty or purpose to his life. He wouldn’t find value, in himself or anything else, by drifting along, seeing where the currents took him, for the rest of his life. He knew very well where they would take him: inexorably downward till he drowned.
So he’d endure the whipping and whatever other spite Sir Benjamin chose to mete out, and wait for it to be over, and then he’d . . . do something. Go and seek a place in one of the profile studios in London or, better, set up one of his own in a provincial town. Give up trying to be more thanhe was, use the skill he had, cut shades for shillings all day every day, and if that felt desperately bleak, it was at least better than the pointless existence to which he’d let himself be habituated until Cassian had made him dream that he mattered.
Daizell set his mind to that, trying to imagine himself enjoying life as an independent artisan rather than starving in a gutter, until the turnkey came to get him.
He was marched into a mean and dingy room for trial, hands chained. It was hardly a courtroom, but justice round here was rudimentary at best. Sir Benjamin sat at a table that represented the Bench. Daizell was shoved into a pew, with the smirking Tom Acaster on the other side. His nose had set very badly, Daizell was pleased to note. A scattering of people sat to watch. Daizell didn’t look at them: he didn’t want to be gawped at.
Sir Benjamin cleared his throat. ‘In the matter of common assault, brought against Daizell Charnage by Thomas Acaster—’
‘These proceedings are unlawful.’
That was Martin’s voice. Daizell looked around sharply, and saw him standing in the small crowd.
The magistrate swelled. ‘I beg your pardon? Who are you, sir?’
‘My name is John Martin, and I object. It is not right for the prosecutor’s father to sit in judgement of this case. It should be heard by another magistrate.’
‘How dare you?’ Sir Benjamin retorted. ‘I am the magistrate here! I rule without favour! Is my son to be denied justice on the basis of his father’s name? I think not, sir. He is the victim of a vicious assault, and I will judge the case with impartiality and discretion.’
Martin scoffed. Daizell tried without success to catch his eye in order to indicateStop it!‘Sir, you are bent on vengeance rather than justice. This is not right. You should release the prisoner until a fair judge is found, since you are clearly no such thing.’
If Martin was trying to get him hanged, he was going the right way about it. Daizell would have liked to have his hands free, just so he could put his face into them. He contemplated the reddening magistrate with a sinking heart.
‘How dare you insult my impartiality?’ Sir Benjamin bellowed. ‘Be silent or I will commit you for contempt of court!’
Martin shrugged. He didn’t back down easily in the face of threats, though that trait was less admirable when Daizell would be the one paying for his insolence. ‘Very well, your honour. If that’s how you want it, I submit a witness for the court.’
Sir Benjamin’s eyes bulged. ‘What witness? None has been bound over for the prosecution except my son. No other will be heard.’
Martin smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I think your honour will find you’re wrong about that.’
He sat down. Cassian stood up.
Daizell’s mouth dropped open. He’d been so busy gaping at Martin that he hadn’t even noticed Cassian behind him, slim and unobtrusive. Now he walked up to the bench, and Daizell had no idea how he could have missed him. How anybody ever could.
‘What is this?’ the magistrate demanded. ‘Who are you, fellow?’
‘I am the Duke of Severn,’ Cassian said. ‘You will address me as Your Grace.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sir Benjamin said with an incredulous laugh.
