“No, Father,” Peter said, turning to the judge and pointing a finger back at the Earl. “He’s also left out the part about who fired the deadly shot to begin with. It was not Prince Aaron, but rather himself!”
“What?” the judge demanded. “Why would you attempt to place blame on someone else?”
“I can answer that,” Lord Bellton said, raising his hand weakly. “Prince Aaron was attempting to tell his daughter some sort of tale involving her upbringing… the Earl… moved to prevent him several times.”
“Well? What is this story about the young lady?” the judge asked, but no one moved to speak. “I order you to tell me at once!”
“I can tell you,” Prince Aaron called from the doorway.
“Father!” Beatrix cried, rushing to him only to be prevented by the constable. Her father held up his hands to show her his shackles, looking at her with utter sadness.
“Then be quick about it,” the judge ordered. “I shall have the truth of this matter immediately.”
“Your Honor, this is most unusual,” the Earl said nervously. “There is no cause to take the word of a known criminal.”
“Oh really? I should think you were the only known criminal in the room but a moment ago,” Peter said, looking at his father with a sneer. “Your Honor, I say let Prince Aaron speak his peace once and for all.”
“Agreed. The prisoner will explain!”
“It is a horrible tale, good sir,” Prince Aaron began, “and seeing as how I’m already in much trouble up to me neck, I should like to not have my part in this new story added to my charges?”
“I can take that under advisement,” the judge said, nodding thoughtfully. “Assuming that your part in this other criminal endeavor proved beneficial.”
“Aye, that it has, judge. One and twenty years ago it was, I was hired as a mercenary to commit a most horrible crime,” Prince Aaron said, looking to his daughter with remorse. “The Earl there paid me in gold to kidnap and kill an infant girl.”
All eyes turned on the Earl, who sat stone-faced and silent. The judge stared in disgust, waiting for Weavington to dispute the thief’s account. But he did not.
“I was not that sort of man, judge,” Prince Aaron continued. “Aye, I was a common thief, but I was no murderer, certainly not of one so young and innocent in the world. But my wife—”
The old thief’s words caught in his throat at the confession, words he had never shared with anyone living or dead. Speaking them now for all to hear, for his daughter to hear, brought him to tears for the first time in ages.
“My wife was ill. She had delivered a child too soon, one that never even breathed its first breath of air. We’d had no money for a midwife, only a neighbor woman to help her through it. When she learned that the babe had not lived, she was prepared to die as well.” Prince Aaron looked down and raised both of his shackled hands to wipe at a tear. “I would never have entertained the notion if not out of desperation. With the money the Earl offered, I could afford a physician for her.”
“But you killed a mere child?” the judge whispered in abhorrence.
“No, Your Honor! I did not! I sought to steal the child as I was told, only I could not bring myself to harm her. Instead, I brought the infant home with me. In my own grief, I thought I could convince my wife that our child had lived, that she needed to be strong for our daughter.” Ignoring all others, Prince Aaron openly wept as he turned to Beatrix and said, “And I have loved you as my own daughter all these years.”
Chapter 29
Beatrix felt faint, and for a moment she wondered if she might embarrass herself by actually having a spell. She searched the faces around the room for any sign of understanding, but all she saw were looks of sympathetic horror or confusion. Save one face, that is, that of the Earl who looked at her with pure revulsion.
“Daughter, please speak to me,” her father implored softly, tears still running in rivulets down his weathered face. “Say something.”
“Daughter? You cannot mean me,” she said slowly. “You are… you are not my father.”
Her words wounded Prince Aaron in a way that was felt by all those present. The light went out of his eyes briefly, but he soon recovered his senses.
“But I am,” he protested. “I am your father, I raised you as my own. You and I were thrown together through terrible circumstances. Remember, please… if I had not acted thus, the Earl would have simply found another to take my place and finish the deed. Yes, I was selfish, but I was saving you as well.”
Beatrix nodded, looking thoughtful. “I suppose that is true, and I owe you some measure of debt for saving my life. But… but I had parents. I had a mother who lived.”
She turned her sorrow to anger and whirled around to face the Earl. “Who was she? Who was the woman that you hated so much that you would see her child ripped from her arms?”
“You know not of which you speak,” the Earl hissed. “You cannot possibly comprehend.”
“Well I should like to know,” the judge snapped. “And I dare suggest your answer be both forthcoming and well-prepared, as your freedom depends upon it.”
The Earl cast an angry glance around the room, reserving the most venomous look for his son. Finally, he said through gritted teeth, “My sister.”
