Chương 41: Heart and Duty

Haverford Hall had the same layout as Ashford Hall, but that was where the similarities ended. Instead of the soft carpets and faint scent of flowers of the ladies' dormitory, the gentlemen's had a polished wooden floor, smelling of leather and something Clara could only describe as a strong perfume concealing the odor of adolescence underneath, to put it generously.

Where Ashford's lobby had velvet sofas arranged for tea and conversation, Haverford's ground floor featured chess and billiards tables, a rack of practice swords mounted on the far wall, and what appeared to be a scoreboard for some kind of tournament, chalked directly onto a slate panel. The maid led her up to the fourth floor, passing portrait after portrait of stern figures in military dress. At one point, they came by Edward, and he gave Clara a curious glance followed by a nod.

The upper hallway itself was wider than she was used to, and louder, too. And—was that a dog barking? Are they even allowed to have dogs in here? I'm starting to feel bad for their maids. Her escort stopped in front of a set of double doors at the end of the east wing. They were noticeably wider than the others on the corridor, and on the right side stood an armored knight wearing an emerald cape who eyed Clara's uniform with passive dismissal.

"Miss Clara Casewell for His Highness Prince Lochlann," said the maid. The knight examined them for a moment, then pushed the doors open without a word. The maid gestured for Clara to step inside. She straightened her back before going in. Lochlann's suite was, unsurprisingly, the largest room she'd seen in any dormitory, having a living area entirely separate from the bedroom.

The living room had a sitting area with three sofas arranged in a U around a low table, a study alcove lined with dozens of books, and a fireplace which crackled in sync with the raindrops hitting the window. The Crown Prince stood near the hearth with his back to her. Ciarán was sprawled sideways on the middle sofa, his arms wrapped around the red throw pillow his face was buried in. The door closed behind her.

"You summoned me, Your Highness?" Clara did her best to keep her voice steady. Almost all her interactions with Lochlann had been less than pleasant up to this point, and, even if she could guess what he wanted from her, she was still on her guard. Lochlann turned to her slowly. There were shadows under his eyes.

"Casewell. Thank you for coming. Sit." She curtsied, then took a seat on one of the empty sofas. The fire was warm on her left side, and she made herself stay still. The Crown Prince remained standing. It took a few seconds before he spoke again.

"How are you?" He said it stiffly, as if the words felt unnatural.

"I suppose I'm doing as well as anyone could be, given the circumstances. Thank you for your concern." He sighed. It was clear that the Crown Prince wasn't used to making small talk with a servant.

"Right. Let me get straight to the point, then. My brother wishes for you to defend Dame Rowena during her trial." It was the expected request. There was no other reason for the prince to have called for her. Yet it wasn't a simple one. Rowena had confessed. Even confirmed that she was ready to repeat it while under the Blessing of Truth. If that held true, that would mean Rowena had been the one who attacked Ricardo and stabbed him brutally in the throat. Then he bled, and then he died.

It wouldn't be like the Memory Void case, when there was a murky gap between cause and effect, or like Clara and Iris's trial, where a biased inquisitor was trying to manipulate the truth. Warren's questions at the garrison had been clear and fair. It was as simple and straightforward as a case could be. So much so that Conrad and Iris were already calling for Rowena's head, and made it clear that they considered what happened to be an attack on House von Rhenia.

The duke hadn't looked amused, either, even though he'd made no direct comments. Yes, there were some peculiarities. The missing delivery from Head Maid Priscilla. The odd insults Rowena claimed Ricardo had uttered. The lack of a compelling reason for Ricardo to even be in Rowena's room. The apparent ease with which Ricardo had been struck. But what would those matter if the accused confessed under the Blessing?

"Your Highnesses, I am Lady Iris's maid. House von Rhenia would not approve of me defending Ricardo's kill—""Rowena didn't do it." Ciarán's voice was muffled.

"I don't care what she says. She didn't do it."

"Ciarán." Lochlann's stern tone held a warning, then he turned back to Clara.

"Casewell, you are not a serf. You don't need House von Rhenia's approval to do anything." That was true, technically. There was no serfdom in the Holy Kingdom, and even Lochlann couldn't command her to do his bidding on this. The worst thing House von Rhenia could do to her, if she went against their wishes, was to fire her and deny her a letter of recommendation, making it very difficult for her to find work with other noble houses. This book's true home is on another platform.

Check it out there for the real experience. Ciarán pushed himself upright. His eyes were red and watery, and he was no longer trying to hide it. He looked at Clara with all the supplication that a wounded child might show when looking at his mother.

"I know you don't believe me. You have no reason to." He swallowed.

"But I know Rowena. She's been my knight since I was five years old. Once, she stood in the rain for six hours because she thought someone in the courtyard looked at me wrong. She is…" He stopped.

"She's the only person who's always been with me. Even knowing what I am. She wouldn't attack someone like that. She just wouldn't. I'm sure of it." Clara looked at the young boy in front of her. Really looked. She couldn't help but empathize with him, small and alone as he was. She'd seen how Iris and Conrad had spoken about Ciarán, and how the others at Claves looked at him. He was a stain. Someone to be disdained, or at best, tolerated. He might be royalty in title, but that wasn't how the other nobles saw him.

And all because his mother, just like Clara, was a maid. She appreciated, in an abstract way, what it meant to arrive in a world that had already decided who you were before you opened your mouth. It hadn't been easy for her, and it wouldn't be any easier for a child. But Rowena had been drunk. Clara knew better than anyone that intoxicated people sometimes did awful things they might not have meant to. And even in her world, if someone killed somebody while under the influence, they would be prosecuted.

In fact, she'd spent several days watching a trial exactly for that purpose. Though by the end of it, even after the conviction, the relief she'd been hoping for never came. No matter how harshly the offender had been punished, the void in Clara's life couldn't be filled. But that was neither here nor there.

"Your Highness," she said, looking at Lochlann, "if you'll allow me a question, I would like to understand why you are involving yourself in this matter. I was told you and His Highness Prince Ciarán do not necessarily have… the best relationship." His gaze drifted to the fireplace. For a moment, Clara thought that he was going to refuse to answer, or chastise her for her insolence.

But then he spoke, "If you must know, after the recent happenings, my father and Edward have reinforced the value of the royal house's relationship with House von Rhenia. If there is even a chance that Ciarán is correct, and that Rowena is not guilty, it is of the utmost importance that her innocence is proven in court." I suppose even brothers who dislike each other still count as family, at a time like this. And the Crown Prince's political calculus was spot on.

Based on Conrad's words, there'd be massive political consequences if Dame Rowena, the Second Prince's personal knight and a champion of the Order of the Wolf, was found guilty of murdering Major Ricardo of the von Rhenia knights.

"We'll pay you. Handsomely," Ciarán added. Clara raised an eyebrow. What does 'handsomely' mean for royalty?

"One thousand marks. Whether you succeed or fail," answered Lochlann, as if he'd heard her question.

"I'm told that's what House von Rhenia paid for Professor Morris. A sum that even most nobles would not be able to conjure up on demand. More than enough for you to not have to worry about the financial consequences if you are dismissed from your current role. More than most servants would make in an entire lifetime, I'm told." Clara pursed her lips. One thousand marks. That would be enough money to retire comfortably and enjoy the rest of her days in relative leisure.

Or, perhaps more importantly, enough starting capital to rent a property, hire a secretary and even assistants, and start a proper law firm. Live a life that was more than that of a servant. It was her dream for her new life, yet all she could see was Iris's face. The look of betrayal the girl would inevitably make if she found out Clara was defending Ricardo's killer. Lochlann took a seat on the sofa in front of her.

"There's one more thing you ought to consider."

"And what would that be, Your Highness?"

"I heard you. When you were talking to Iris about Advocate Valeria's background, helping her prepare for the play. You were telling her how a 'lawyer' should act. I believe your exact words were, ' even the guilty deserve a defense—that's the essence of a fair trial.'" He cleared his throat.

"Even I could see how strong your convictions appeared, for a commoner." Despite his words, it did not feel like praise. Then he looked straight into her eyes and smirked.

"Was it all for show? Are you the type of person whose ideals vanish when they become personally inconvenient? Or are you one who stands by your beliefs, through hardship and turmoil?" Fuck. She looked away from him. Her jaw was tight. Anyone who believed in adversarial justice would tell you that every accused deserves a defense, even the guilty ones.

The test of mettle between counsel and prosecution was designed to ensure that the result was reached fairly, that any mitigating circumstances came to light, and that due process and the rule of law prevailed. Ever since coming to this world, Clara had been trying to plant the seeds of such a system. To show its inhabitants that, even if the Blessing of Truth was useful, it wasn't the only thing they needed for a fair trial.

If Clara Casewell believed in the modern justice system, then, as the only lawyer in this world, how could she justify turning the prince down? Well, technically there was another lawyer, but he was the prosecution, so it wasn't as if she could claim a conflict of interest and pass him the case. Should she refuse to avoid upsetting Iris? When Clara didn't even want to stay a servant in the long term? Logically, that did not seem like a strong reason. Lochlann was right.

She could protest as much as she wanted to, come up with countless excuses for why she might refuse, but there was nothing she could say that would rebuke her own principles. She closed her eyes and saw Iris again. The only person to support her ever since she'd appeared in this world. Even when Clara had acted suspiciously, deflected her questions, argued against her orders, Iris had stood by her. Believed in her. There was no way Clara could decide whether to defend Rowena on her own. It was impossible.

She had to talk to Iris. Maybe if Clara explained everything—helped Iris understand that a defense didn't mean trying to get a guilty person to walk free—they could get somewhere together, reach an outcome they could both live with. At the very least, she had to try.

"I… I'll have to think about it, Your Highness," she muttered, looking at the floor. Lochlann was silent. There was only the crackling of the fire and the soft thud of raindrops hitting the glass. Then he nodded and took a silk pouch from his jacket. He threw it across to her, and Clara just barely caught it. Inside, there were five marks' worth of coins.

"Consider this an advance payment. Depending on how your thinking goes, you may find yourself in need of a place to stay." Well, if that isn't both surprisingly thoughtful and rather ominous. Clara left the room and steeled herself. It was time to talk to Iris.