Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [369]
Brianna’s attention had at first been fixed upon her father; she could scarcely get enough of looking at him. He was the tallest man in the courtroom, and by far the most striking, attired in snowy linen and a coat of deep blue that set off his slanted eyes and fiery hair.
A movement in the corner attracted her eye, though, and she looked to see the officer she had noticed before. He was no longer looking at her father, but had fixed Hugh Berowne with a penetrating stare. Berowne gave the shadow of a nod, and sat back to await the end of Fraser’s testimony.
“It would appear that Mr. Fraser’s claim of exemption holds true, Mr. Berowne,” the Justice said mildly. “I must therefore hold him acquitted of the charge of—”
“He cannot prove it!” Berowne blurted out. He glanced at the officer, as though for moral support, and stiffened his long chin. “There is no documentary proof; only James Fraser’s word.”
Another stir went through the courtroom; this one uglier in tone. Brianna had no trouble hearing the shock and outrage that her father’s word had been called in question, and felt an unexpected pride.
Her father showed no anger, though; he rose again, and bowed to the Justice.
“And your Lordship will permit me.” He reached into his coat and removed a folded sheet of parchment, with a blob of red sealing wax affixed.
“Your Lordship will be familiar with the Governor’s seal, I am sure,” he said, laying it on the table before Mr. Conant. The Justice raised one eyebrow, but looked carefully at the seal, then broke it open, examined the document within, and laid it down.
“This is a duly witnessed copy of the original grant of land,” he announced, “signed by His Excellency, William Tryon.”
“How did you get that?” Berowne blurted. “There wasn’t time to get to New Bern and back!” Then all the blood drained from his face. Brianna looked at the officer; his pudgy face seemed to have acquired all the blood Berowne had lost.
The Justice cast him a sharp glance, but merely said, “Given that documentary proof is now entered in evidence, we find that the defendant is plainly not guilty of the charge of theft, since the property in question was his own. On the matter of assault, however—” At this point he noticed that Jamie had not sat down, but was still standing in front of the bench.
“Yes, Mr. Fraser? Had you something else to tell the court?” Justice Conant dabbed at a trickle of sweat that ran down from under his wig; with so many bodies packed into the small room, it was like a sweatbath.
“I beg the court might gratify my curiosity, your Lordship. Does Mr. Berowne’s original charge describe more fully the attack upon him?”
The Justice raised both eyebrows, but shuffled quickly through the papers on the table before him, then handed one to the bailiff, pointing to a spot on the page.
“Complainant stated that one Fergus Fraser struck him in the face with his fist, causing complainant to fall stunned upon the ground, whereat the defendant seized the bridle of the horse, leapt upon it, and rode away, calling out remarks of an abusive nature in the French tongue. Complainant—”
A loud cough from the dock pulled all eyes to the defendant, who smiled charmingly at Mr. Justice Conant, plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and elaborately wiped his face—using the hook at the end of his left arm.
“Oh!” said the Justice, and swiveled cold eyes toward the witness chair, where Berowne squirmed in hot-faced agony.
“And would you care to explain, sir, how you have sustained injury upon the right side of your face, when struck by the left fist of a man who does not have one?”
“Yes, crottin,” Fergus said cheerfully. “Explain that one.”
Perhaps feeling that Berowne’s attempts at explanation were best conducted in privacy, Justice Conant mopped his neck and put a summary