Sixteen

The Accused

Gratia stirred slightly. She could feel the heat of the morning sun warming her cheek. Contentedly, she licked her lips and rolled onto her back. Then a cloudy thought drifted in place of the retreating sleep. There was sun on her cheeks and yet hadn’t she risen last night to close the curtains? She stretched her arm out slightly and encountered something sticky.

Gratia’s eyes snapped open. There was a funny smell in the room: metallic, yet unmistakable. Seconds later a piercing scream filled every corner of the house.

Lizzy awoke to the scream. She sat bolt-upright in her bed and minutes later flung open the door to the room. What she saw in front of her made bile rise from her guts. There was blood soaking the sheets and Gratia was bent over Gale’s cold, drained body, kissing him and sobbing uncontrollably. She was babbling stupid words in an endless stream.

Lizzy stood there, her eyes growing wider. She simply could not believe what she saw. It wasn’t true. A bad dream or something, but certainly it couldn’t be true.

Suddenly, her attention focused on Gratia. She was squealing now in a high-pitched, child-like tone. It was grating.

“Shut up, you stupid girl,” she snapped, unsure quite why she had just said such a thing. “You’re not doing him any good! Stand back, let me see.”

“Bu– but he’s dead!” squeaked the girl, cradling his head in her arms. “He’s dead.”

“He can’t be, nonsense,” she said, pushing the gypsy awkwardly away and staring at the gaping wound where a blade had scorched his throat. She gasped and staggered backwards, unsure what to do. “He’s dead,” she whispered, looking back to Gratia. “He’s truly dead.” Her eyes widened still further. “Oh, my dear girl. What on earth happened?” She knelt down and put her arms around Gratia. “My dear, sweet girl.”

For over an hour they sat together in shocked silence, sobbing quietly. It was Lizzy who eventually broke the trance, standing and smoothing her dress absent-mindedly. “I shall go call for the watch,” she whispered, and left the room, but Gratia did not hear her from the depth of her own misery.

The head of the watch paced about the room with the dagger in his hand. The body had been carted out as respectfully as the guards could manage. Lizzy sat in the oak chair, one hand on Gratia’s shoulder. She was cross-legged on the floor, having cried all the tears she had in her, and was rocking slightly back and forth.

“So, how do you explain this?” The large, ugly Orc asked, flourishing the dagger for effect. “What was it doing under your pillow?”

“Oh, do hush you wretched man! You can’t possibly think that she could have had anything to do with it!” growled Lizzy, surprisingly calmly considering the events of that morning.

“It is a common fact that many women kill their lovers as they sleep, more so than common thieves kill their victims!”

Lizzy was pale, her defence of her friend almost half-hearted.

“But why? Why on earth would she do such a thing? She loved him,” she asked wearily.

“But she is a gypsy, is she not?”

Lizzy seemed more hurt by this than Gratia. She winced slightly and tightened her grip on the younger girl’s shoulder.

“Well? Or are all the town rumours a lie?” The Orc looked hideously smug.

It was Gratia who shook her head and said in a hoarse voice “No, they are not lies. I am a gypsy.”

“So you admit it!” The Orc grinned as if she had just confessed to the crime.

Lizzy looked shocked. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“He believes that because I am a gypsy I must have killed him for money,” Gratia said sourly.

“And did you?” Lizzy asked.

The pain of such distrust stung Gratia so much she found strength left for a fresh batch of tears. It was one thing for the watch to accuse her, she had come to expect that of them, but for Lizzy to question her innocence and her love for Gale was almost unbearable.

“What do you think, Lizzy?” she said, staring coldly into the witch’s eyes. “Did I kill Gale?”

Lizzy sighed. “No, of course not.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked the head of the watch, twisting the dagger in his hands.

“Because I know she wouldn’t do anything like that. She loved him.”

“But he was wealthy, was he not?”

“To an extent,” Lizzy conceded.

“An obvious target for a gypsy...”

“She is not a gypsy any more. She is a gentlewoman, just as I am.”

“Once a gypsy, always a gypsy,” the Orc murmured under his breath, yet loud enough for them to hear.

Lizzy glared at him. “Leave my house,” she demanded. “I have cleaning to do and you are in my way.”

The Orc shrugged and gave Gratia one last shifty look before turning to the doorway. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you Elizabethan. If you wake up dead one morning, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He gave a sly smile. “I know these gypsy types, they aren’t worth a penny. I’m surprised Sir Ashfain, being the gentleman that he was, didn’t choose his whores more carefully.”

Lizzy didn’t retaliate this time, she merely stood and watched the man go. Turning to Gratia she said, “Come now, we must scrub these sheets.”

“A gypsy, you say?” sighed Garribal Hansfreed, the High Excellence of Lariaan.

“Yes, a gypsy. Scum, your honourable one. Came here about a year ago to seduce sir Ashfain. It is therefore that I have reason to believe that she has killed him for his money,” replied the ugly Orc, his chest inflated with pride for his thorough investigation.

The High Excellence sighed again and rested his cheek on his fist. “And what evidence do you have to substantiate these claims?”

“Oh, lots m’lordy one. Firstly, I present evidence part one – the offending weapon.”

Obediently, to the click of the Orc’s fingers, a small Orcan page stepped forward with a large rusty knife on a purple velvet cushion. “This was found under her pillow, sire. Obviously hidden there so’s we would not find it. She greatly underestimated our detective powers m’lord.”

The excellence nodded dully. “Obviously.”

“Next, we have the fact that the window was smashed, sire.”

Garribal thought for a moment and then, frowning, said, “But surly that would mean that someone else had broken in, would it not?”

“Ah, but with all due respect your greatnessnessness, we have reason to believe she was trying to fool us into thinking just that!”

Garibbal thought for another moment and was about to say something, but thought better of it. Instead he simply shrugged and replied, “Ah yes, how silly of me.”

The Orc guard’s chest inflated again and he stood before the throne with a large, proud grin on his face.

“Well,” said the Excellence of Lariaan. “What else is there?”

“What else m’lord?” The Orc looked puzzled.

“Yes, what other evidence do you have to convict this girl?”

“Err, well sire. Erm, I didn’t think you’d need much else. In fact, that’s about it really.” But, never one to look incompetent in front of the head man, he hastily added “We’re looking into it further,” and gave what he supposed was a winning smile, but actually resembled a gnarled tree branch being split in two.

The Excellence nodded. “I see,” he said, thinking things over again. “Now, you wish me to hang a perfectly beautiful woman on the strength of that evidence?” He gazed at the head of the watch.

“Well, why not sire? Everyone knows the only good gypsy is a dead one!” The creature grinned at him.

For a long moment, the Excellence sat in deep contemplation, then waved his hand passively and sighed, “All right then, whatever you think’s best. However, I shan’t be attending the execution. Don’t want to end up like old Aribal Parmist, throwing myself off church spires and whatnot.”

“Very good, your greatnesship,” smiled the Orc. “A wise decision indeed. I shall see this is taken care of right away, m’lord.”