Fortunate Son (33 page)

“Jemmy?”

“Aye?”

“I'm…sorry.”

James took a deep breath, then collapsed his chin to his chest, silently crying. Seán reached over and put his right hand on James's leg.

“I was,” Seán began, his voice bare, a rhythmic whisper, “I was coming…to Kildare.” With a punctured lung, he was wheezing his words in short, faint bursts. “I was coming to…to find ye…to tell ye…how sorry I am.”

James nodded, a faint sob escaping before he could stop it. He placed a hand over Seán's. “I know, Seán. I know. Ye did what ye thought ye had t'do.”

“Took me a damn hour…just to get on…that horse.”

James smiled, smearing his tears back. “I'm glad ye did.”

“Can ye…forgive me, for what I did? Seámus?”

“Of course I do.”

“I just had—”

“No more of it. ‘Tis done with.”

“I did ye wrong.”

“Hush now. We'll never speak of it again.”

“Ye said…ye said I had to keep talkin'…now ye're tellin' me to…to hush.”

James chuckled softly. “I suppose ye're right.” Again he wiped his eyes, taking another deep breath. “That thing, that misunderstanding. We'll just not speak on it, all right?” His voice peaked up at the end, full of emotion. He pulled in his bottom lip and bit down. Finally, he continued, “Let's talk about something else.”

Seán was silent.

James sat for a moment, searching for something to say. “The trial will be soon, two months. November.”

“I wish I could've been there.”

“Where? You will be!”

“At your trial…to see Bailyn's face… when ye win.”

“The bastard's dead.”

“Ye kill him?”

“Aye.”

Seán moved barely. “That's good.”

“Aye. I suppose.”

“Ye ran him down with…with a coach and six?”

“Nay,” James answered though another smile.

“Well ye should have,” breathed Seán. “Should've thrown…a centipede on him. Would've killed him…on the spot.”

James chuckled. “Aye. But how could I find another with such long fangs?”

“Aye,” Seán whispered. For the first time he gave a faint grin. Slowly, he reached out and touched James's shirt. “That yer blood, or his? Or mine?” Then he gestured at the splatters across James's face.

“All three, I think.”

“Ye hurt?”

“I'll be alright.”

Sean took a slow, pained breath, then asked, “Ye sure?”

“Don't be concerned. Laura will have me back in health.”

“That's good. Someone needs…t' look out for ye. When did she arrive?”

“Last Spring,” said James. He was watching the road, hopeful for any sign of a wagon or coach. Anyone. Maybe he should just put Seán back on that horse and head on to Kildare. But what if that killed Seán? How could he risk that? It was only luck that got Seán this far alive. But to let him die here? He had to do something.

“Is she Lady Anglesea?

“We plan to marry after the trial.”

“That's good. I'm sure ye'll—”

“Ye'll be there, Seán. Ye will.”

He groaned, readjusting his arm. “I'm of the doubtin'.”

“She asked for ye t'be there. Ye don't want to disappoint her. Nay, ye don't.” James stared off. He wished Laura was with him, yet was completely glad she wasn't. He glanced again at Seán, then to his shoulder. “Ye'll get through this night.” In another flicker of moonlight, he saw the tablecloth was much darker than before. He pulled the bindings tighter. “There's no damn way I'm letting ye die out here. I won't—”

“She's beautiful,” Seán interrupted.

James took a deep breath. “So she is. But you, ye'd best keep yer eyes off her! I don't want to lose her to some Irish Catholic who….” He trailed off, realizing there was no joke to be made there. “Just keep yer eyes and hands off her, if ye know what's good for ye.”

‘“Ach, now Jemmy….” He tapped James's arm. “It'd only be the one hand.”

“Alright then,” James laughed. “But only the one.”

The windows were still there, still dark and aged, still midair on the walls of the Four Courts of Justice. James stood motionless, neck strained back as he studied them, far overhead. Behind him, the footman helped Laura from the coach. “What are ya seeing?” she asked, taking James's arm. Her creamy linen dress crinkled against his side. The bulk of her hair was pinned up, letting a few buttery tresses drape her thin shoulders.

“Wonderin' what's so interesting there,” he replied. “Those windows.” He saw her confusion. “See the flagstones?” he asked, looking to the base of the wall. “One sticks up a bit.”

“Does it?”

“I followed my father's casket here,” he explained, pointing along the route the pallbearers had taken. “Came ‘round this way, to get to the front of that church there, Christ Church. Then, somewhere along here, I looked up…at those windows, I believe.” Another remembrance came to mind and he turned toward the yard. “I was looking for my mother.” His voice trailed silent for a moment. “Whatever t'was, I tripped on that flagstone.”

“Oh dear,” she softly said. “What happened?”

“I knocked a bearer down, I did. He let go and my dead father nearly crushed me.” He leaned his head back again, considering the crusty panes. “I'd forgotten that, till just now.”

Laura patted his arm. “I'm sure this city reminds ya of many things.”

“Aye.” His brow peaked for a second. “Some be best forgotten.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Some best remembered.”

Another large hackney pulled to a stop and the driver leaped down to fly the door wide. Mackercher stepped out, followed by three other solicitors, all wearing black silk robes and long, bubbly, powdered wigs. “James. Miss Johansson,” Mackercher greeted, walking briskly to them. “Glad ya're already here. Thought we'd passed ya near Naas.” He turned fully to Laura. “Aren't ya the very beauty o' the mornin'.” She gave a pursed smile, eyes sparking back. Then he plopped a big hand on James's shoulder, giving James's clothing an exaggerated review. “Not a grandee t'be.”

James grinned. “Ye'll not get
me
under a plume.” His fashionable blue suit was accented simply by a smattering of silver glints: his dress sword's hilt, the glimmer of buckles—shoes, breeches, and a small one on the crown of his royal blue tricorn hat. His wig, though fuller than his usual pintail, was nevertheless tied so firmly back that he more appeared to be sporting a white duck strangled with a black ribbon than wearing that singular beacon of wealth and peerage.

“I like it,” announced Mackercher half-heartedly. He looked back at more solicitors and barristers disembarking their coaches. Then he refocused on James. “It is most appropriate, m'lord. Yar attire. Just as we'd wish this jury to see.”

Now the crowd was thickening, people moving in large waves, rounding the corner to the front of the Four Courts, swarming the wide stone steps like seagulls squawking hungrily. Many of these were the working class of Dublin, mostly men, come to see a lord put down. Someone noticed James and yelled, “James Annesley! There he is!” Others reacted, some pointing, and James gave an embarrassed nod.

Mackercher barked, “Let's go,” pressing firmly on James's back. James in turn grabbed Laura's hand and they moved quickly for the steps.

More cries followed them up. “Ye'll win, m'lord!” they shouted. “Don't believe his lies!” “Ye'll surely beat dat damned pretender!”

James turned back, acknowledging their words with an awkward wave of his hand, then stepped inside the courthouse. It was no quieter there. The main hall was filled with people, most of quality and expensively dressed, engaged in little pockets of conversation, waiting for the trial to commence. Many turned, saying, “Good morning, Mr. Annesley. We wish ye well.” He smiled, nodding to them as well, yet kept walking, keeping a firm hold on Laura's hand. As they arrived at the courtroom's ironwood doors, two grim doormen opened them slowly.

“Go on,” Mackercher urged with a whisper. “Please, m'lord.”

Stepping inside the giant hall of the Court of Exchequer, they were immediately enveloped in the smell of aged, oiled oak and the coolness of the cavernous room. James's gaze drew upward, to the high arched ceiling soaring above them. Then down its lines to the enormous stone pillars supporting it, each reverently hugging a wall, as if fearing conspicuousness in this grand room. He and Laura, with Mackercher close behind, kept moving to the front, their light footfall echoing off the burnished floor and heavy walls. Directly ahead, along the back wall, stood a raised platform supporting a long judges' bench. Behind it were the tops of three tall, elaborately carved chairs, each examining the room, anticipating their charges, as if three temporary governors, rulers of an empty room, each to disappear when their kings arrived. Above them—high above them—were the same windows James had seen from the street. Yet now they appeared different, vivid and bright. Glowing. Not darkened at all.

He looked at the men near the front. A few of Richard's attorneys studied him as he approached, judgmentally frowning as if he had done something disgusting, as if he was not welcome, an intruder advancing on them. James gave them an obvious smirk. Mackercher stepped around to take the lead. They walked to the front of the gallery and stopped before the barristers' bar, the low wooden fence dividing the grand hall, separating the gallery from the court tables, jury and judges' bench. “Miss Johansson,” Mackercher whispered, “Would ya be so kind as sit on that first row? James will join me in front of the bar.” He pointed. “We'll be there, right in front of ya.”

“Aya,” she agreed with a demure smile, then sat down, arranging her dress.

“Will Madam Kristin be joining us?” asked Mackercher.

“I do expect her this afternoon.”

“Then ya'd best save her a space. This will be a crowded room.”

“I will.” Laura smiled.

James was studying the faces in the courtroom. “Where's Richard?” he growled softly.

“He'll be along shortly,” replied Mackercher as he swung open the gate in the bar rail. James followed him in, and they moved to the plaintiff's side, a long walnut table on the left. Behind it were seven chairs, all facing the bench. Mackercher took the middle seat, James to his right. Other lawyers were streaming in now, a few of them James's. All appeared intense and somber.

James turned, smiling at Laura, remembering her at the murder trial, in the Old Bailey's nasty little courtroom. But this was different. Though still under English law, this was the grand court of Ireland. And this was his fight, his trial. Here all would be set right. Finally. Here he would begin his life anew, recapture what had been stolen. He stopped on that. Such was impossible. He looked at the floor. To regain those stolen years, that stolen childhood. It could not be done. Winning here, winning this trial, that was the sum, the entirety of justice he could hope for—to have a jury say before everyone that he, James Annesley, was the Earl of Anglesea. That he had been wronged. That he was not a runaway felon, not an indentured servant. Not a murderer. Not a worthless bastard. He thought of Mr. Clowes and smiled to himself. The old man would be proud. He was ready to prove himself, his truth, his name, his birthright. Yet he most missed Fynn. If only. Had he lived to see this day, this dream fulfilled, this revenge obtained, this loyalty requited. He flinched, felt the blood. Moved away from the image's sharp edge.

Laura was holding him with a small smile, as only she could do. But he could see the concern, her tight brow, the flatness of her lips, the sloop of her eyes. She was worried. She should not be, he thought. He wasn't. Probably because of Mackercher. He glanced up at the man, now standing, consulting with their throng of other lawyers, papers in hand. Yes, it was Mackercher's presence, his irrevocable, unshakable strength. Mixed with the truth of the matter, the evidence, the history, it all formed a confidence in him that he could not otherwise explain. It would not be easy though—a point Mackercher had made time and time again. Richard had seventeen solicitors registered for his defense, including, most notably, the Solicitor General of Ireland himself. And he had a team of thirty-two barristers that had been combing the streets of Dublin, in fact the whole of Ireland, searching for witnesses, anyone who would testify that Joan Landy, “Juggy,” was James's real mother. According to Mackercher, they had found over one hundred and fifty people to corroborate that story. James wondered how much of his money Richard had spent buying so many lies. Yet, what if they were not lying? Was it possible Mackercher was also his uncle? he wondered, studying the looming Scotsman. Would he be sitting between two uncles today, Mackercher on his left, Richard on his right? He shook his head. No, Mary Sheffield was his mother. He knew that. They had over one hundred witnesses to prove it. Though he had to admit to himself, a part wished he was related to Mackercher, that he had that man's unique strength in his veins. Laura blushed slightly as James looked back at her again. She would see. This would all end well. He could feel it.

When the giant doors to the courtroom creaked again, James sat straight, glancing up expectantly. More of Richard's attorneys were coming in, followed by the first group of spectators. James studied them. The room rumbled with indistinct voices, a few laughs, but most speaking in low serious tones. He felt alone and decided to sit with Laura until he was required to come forward. As he stood, the courtroom's doors again opened, more spectators streaming. Then he saw Seán walking toward him, his coat's left arm tied off at the elbow. They embraced awkwardly, James whispering, “Glad to see ye.”

“I wouldn't have missed this, Seámus.”

Laura was standing. “Seán! So good of ya to come. Are ya well?”

“Well enough,” he smirked. “‘Tis grand t' see ye again.” He kissed her hand.

“Do ye remember her in Kildare?” asked James. “Ye were a bit muzzy that week.”

“Remember her? Oh, Lord aye!” Seán turned. “‘Tis you I can't seem to place.”

James chuckled. “When did ye arrive?”

“Yesterday. We came through Kildare. Just after ye'd left.”

“We?” asked Laura.

“Ach, aye, we. Where's me manners!” Seán turned to a young, pretty lady behind him and said, “Laura, Seámus, I'd like ye to meet Miss Ann Conway. She was my nurse in New Ross. Ann, this is Miss Laura . . .uhmm.”

“Johansson,” said James.

“Ach, aye, Laura Johansson.”

“The pleasure's mine, ma'am,” said Ann, duteously.

“Nice meeting ya as vell,” Laura replied with her usual resplendent smile.

“And this rogue here,” Seán went on, “is my good friend Seámus. Nay, rather….” He paused, glancing about, then raised his voice, “This is James Annesley, the Earl of Anglesea!”

James smiled self-consciously as all eyes focused on him. Ann curtsied, blushing a shade lighter than her red hair. “‘Tis an honor to meet ye, m'lord.”

“Ah, now,” James said, “none of that. I'm pleased to meet someone willing to put up with this rapscallion.” He grabbed Seán's right shoulder.

“Shall ya sit with us?” asked Laura.

“We'd be honored,” said Seán.

Half an hour later, James was once again beside Mackercher at the plaintiff's table. The courtroom was full of people, the gallery overflowing, the area in front of the bar teaming with a sea of black robes and long solicitor's wigs. When an extra table was brought in for Richard's seventeen solicitors, James's six, including Mackercher, were clearly amused. Finally, the bailiff and other officers of the court filed in, and the bailiff ordered everyone to order and to stand. The courtroom emanated with squeaks and rustling as the hundreds of spectators came to their feet. An odd hush followed as the twelve gentlemen jurors entered, then stood before their seats in the long jury box beside James's table. He watched them, each dressed in black, blue and burgundy finery, each noble and proud. Though he noticed a few glancing at him, others were clearly looking for Richard, who still had not arrived.

“There stands the rest of Ireland's wealth,” whispered Mackercher.

James nodded, knowing Richard had obtained his due: a jury of equals. There were no surprises there. He had been briefed on their identities weeks ago. This one jury was rumored to be the wealthiest ever seated by an English court. They consisted of five earls, six marquis, and one baron—all members of the Irish and English Parliaments. And compiled, they represented almost the whole of Protestant Ireland, save Richard's vast holdings. (Though most of their lives were spent on English soil.) Whether or not they would be sympathetic to James remained to be seen. A verdict for him would require devouring their own. Supposing they saw Richard that way, as brethren. Mackercher surmised it hinged on how many Richard had irreparably angered in Parliament—something impossible to ascertain with accuracy, rumors being as abundant as the people who birth them.

As the jurors remained standing, the bailiff announced the three honorable judges as they solemnly filed in, each under bulky crimson robes trimmed with white fur, a black sash around the waist, a long wig that draped shoulders and chest. All three faces were aged and pale, firmly impassive. The one who took the center seat, Lord Chief Baron, John Bowes, wore a thick gold cord around his neck, hanging low like a giant necklace. He was broad shouldered, with a long face around a Roman nose below deep-set eyes that carefully betrayed nothing.