Laws in Conflict (16 page)

‘Through the graveyard, Brehon,’ said Moylan. ‘There’s a gate to Lombard Street from there.’

Mara began to breathe more easily. The crowd from the church would spill out into Market Street. The well-trained troops would clear them from there, either back up the town towards Gate Street, or else down to Lombard Street, in order to allow the soldiers to escort the prisoner back to the gaol. But by that stage she would have her scholars safely under cover inside the substantial walls of the Bodkin tower house.

And she also would be under the protection of a prominent citizen of Galway.

Not one of them, she resolved, would stir outside the door that night.

But what about that poor boy? What about Walter Lynch, only and beloved son of his mother, who had been denied the right to appeal against his sentence and had been condemned to a death on the gallows?

Mara resolved that she would not give up the fight. Somehow or other, her brains, her courage and her knowledge of the law would have to achieve the impossible. How could she restore Walter to his mother and get Sheedy out of that filthy gaol?

The customs of London differ from all others in point of trial: for, if the existence of the custom be brought in question, it shall not be tried by a jury, but by certificate from the lord mayor and aldermen by the mouth of their recorder; unless it be such a custom as the corporation is itself interested in, as a right of taking toll, &c., for then the law permits them not to certify on their own behalf.

J
ane Bodkin, herself, opened the door to them. Her face was pale but she was composed and hospitable, and asked eager questions about how the trial had gone. It was obvious, though, that her mind was elsewhere and she jumped nervously when a squeaking hinge heralded the opening of the door to the outside.

‘Henry!’ she exclaimed thankfully, but she did not move towards the hall, just busied herself with pouring small beer for the scholars and offering them tasty slices of ham pie to go with it. The verdict of guilty against the son of the presiding judge seemed to upset her less than the talk of the unrest in the church and she was eager to hear all about it, exclaiming with horror at the sacrilege. Or perhaps, thought Mara, trying to be just, she could not face the thought of the boy whom she had called ‘the loveliest baby’ being hanged on Gallows’ Green.

Henry Bodkin’s face lit up briefly when he came into the parlour and saw his guests.

‘Good,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I saw you go through the chapel and hoped that you were safe. That was well thought of. Things are getting serious in the town tonight. Tempers have been stirred and I cannot see this state of affairs being easily resolved. He was a popular young man and I always liked him,’ he added with an air of regret.

‘I can’t bear to think of him,’ said Jane soberly. ‘And his poor mother, too. Tell me, Henry, is there anything can be done to save him?’ Her eyes met her brother’s and for a moment there was a slight tension in the air. Almost, thought Mara, as though Jane felt that Henry was not doing enough for Walter. Perhaps she deplored his refusal to act for the young man. That was the trouble with these old bachelors, she thought, with a moment’s irritation. They were selfish and they never wanted anything to disturb the easy, pleasant tenor of their days. If Henry had taken on the case, she could have helped him; could have been at his elbow suggesting things; could have put her scholars to work. Even with a couple of hours only in which to work, perhaps they might have come up with enough evidence to cast a doubt in the judge’s mind, enough evidence to have justified the postponing of the trial.

Although, thought Mara, I can understand his reasoning. Yes, the matter was too hurried. Yes, no lawyer wanted to be rushed into making a case with only a couple of hours of preparation. Yes, this was a particularly dangerous and difficult case with the whole of Galway city taking part and with the judge of the court happening to be the father of the accused man. No wonder that Henry Bodkin had not wanted to touch it. But still, what was a professional reputation worth when placed on the scales against a young man’s life?

‘Mara says that there was a riot beginning in the church.’ Jane Bodkin shuddered, and then said with disgust, ‘What a place to hold a trial! It should have been at the courthouse, not inside a consecrated building.’

‘I think that Mayor Lynch was determined that justice should be seen to be done,’ said Henry Bodkin quietly. ‘The church was the only place that would be big enough to accommodate most of the citizens.’

‘He probably thinks of himself as a sort of God anyway,’ said Fiona, with a freedom of speech that none of the other scholars would have assumed in front of strangers. Though Mara always encouraged them to speak their minds to her, she usually reproved any such outspokenness in public.

However, this time she did not rebuke Fiona, even with a look. She was curious to find Henry Bodkin’s opinion of the judge’s action and looked at him expectantly.

‘Difficult to know what else he could do with the evidence,’ remarked Henry Bodkin, with an indulgent smile at Fiona. ‘But I grant you it was a piteous sight.’

‘He didn’t have to yield to pressure to hold the trial today, though, did he?’ said Mara smartly, looking an invitation to the boys to join in the discussion. ‘What do you think, Fachtnan?’ she added.

‘The law of God should be above the law of man,’ quoted Fachtnan. ‘I think he showed no mercy to Walter. How could he have done that to his own son?’

‘You forget Abraham who was willing to sacrifice his son, Isaac,’ said Henry, pulling his beard with an amused smile.

‘Abraham! I should hope we are a little more civilized than that these days,’ said Fiona disgustedly. ‘At least we Brehon lawyers are,’ she added with a challenging look.

‘Your lawyers are civilized, yes,’ said Henry, with a courteous half-bow to Mara, ‘but can a society be civilized if it allows thieves and murderers to walk free after the payment of a fine?’ His eyes were amused as he watched Fiona’s indignant face, but his words had a heartfelt ring about them.

‘That’s an interesting thought,’ said Mara judicially, ‘and yet perhaps if we can move from Abraham to the New Testament, we see that Jesus preaches forgiveness for a sinner who has shown repentance. And,’ she added triumphantly, ‘during all my years as a Brehon I cannot remember an incidence when a murderer, tried and sentenced by me, reoffended. The fine is so heavy that his or her kinsmen become responsible for behaviour in case they should have to pay out again. The person who has killed may walk free; but they are watched by the community in which they live.’

‘But—’ began Henry Bodkin, but at that moment there was a loud frenzied attack on the door of the house, the knocker banging against the iron plate in an urgent summons.

The steward of Henry’s household was already at the door, a drawn dagger in his hand. He peered through the small window to one side and then said with shocked tones, ‘It’s Mistress Lynch.’

‘Open up; quickly, man!’ Henry Bodkin himself was at the door and he caught Margaret as she stumbled over the doorstep and slumped into his arms. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair tumbled, her dress stained with streaks of mould and her headdress missing. The well-dressed, well-groomed wife of Mayor Lynch looked like one of the boatwomen from the fish market.

‘I tried to get into Blake’s Castle,’ she gasped, ‘but Valentine is not there. He’s out in the streets. I didn’t want to stay with Cecilia. She could not protect me if James came looking for me. He will want me to stay at home, to stay quiet, to do nothing, but I’m not going to do that. I’m not going back to James. I’ve been afraid of him all of my life. I’ve been a coward and I’ve betrayed my son. But I am not going to be like that any more. Now I will rescue my boy if it costs me my life.’

Her eyes met Mara’s and she held out a hand. ‘Thank God you are still here. You must help me. You must. Walter did not do this thing. He would not. He could not.’

‘Come into the parlour,’ said Mara soothingly. It was not polite to take the lead in someone else’s house but the two Bodkins seemed to be frozen. Neither had moved nor said anything.

‘I . . . I can’t bear it,’ sobbed Margaret hysterically as Mara put an arm around her waist and half-supported, half-carried her across the hallway and into the warm parlour. ‘My son! My only son! His own father to condemn him to death!’

‘Some wine,’ said Mara sharply, aiming the order to a space halfway between Fachtnan and Henry Bodkin, but it was her scholar who poured the wine from its flagon on the fire hob and brought the goblet across to her. Mara held it in her hand and said in a low, soothing voice, ‘Drink this. You must be brave for Walter’s sake. We will talk about it in a minute and will see what there is to be done.’

Something in those words seemed to quieten Margaret and she made an effort to sip. She tried to speak, but Mara held up an authoritative hand.

‘Not yet,’ she said firmly. ‘Drink your wine first. We must be very calm and very practical. Remember that there are five days before the execution. Your son will be safe for those five days. A lot can happen during that time.’

Margaret gulped at the wine and then seized Mara’s hand. ‘Will you help me?’ she implored. ‘You won’t go back to your own kingdom and leave me, will you? You will be able to prove to James that his son did not do this terrible thing. James will listen to you; he despises me. He thinks that I am silly and hysterical. You’re clever; you will be able to find a solution.’

Mara’s eyes met Henry’s as he stood on the other side of the sobbing mother.
If there is a solution
, his eyes seemed to say and she nodded at him. The horror of the trial lay in its indecent haste and in the fact that it was the father of the boy who had pronounced the fatal sentence on his only son; not in the verdict itself. Very few courts in England would have given a different verdict. The evidence against Walter Lynch was overwhelming – even she, in a Brehon law court, might have felt forced to name him as the guilty party if no new evidence came to light after weeks of careful investigation.

Warm-hearted Fiona, however, had no such hesitations and doubts. She knelt on the floor beside the poor woman and seized the cold hand, rubbing it between her own two warm ones.

‘We’ll help,’ she said impulsively. ‘We’ll all put our brains together, won’t we, Brehon? Some of us,’ she went on in her usual airy fashion, with a sidelong glance at Moylan, ‘don’t have many brains, but every little helps.’

Margaret gave a gulp and half-smile and Fiona went on swiftly, ‘Now tell us why you think that Walter didn’t do it?’

This direct approach seemed to work with Margaret better than silent sympathy or the shocked exclamations from Jane Bodkin. Her eyes were still brimming with tears, but she tried to sit a little straighter and smiled affectionately at the girl.

‘If only he had been with all of you last night!’ she said, gulping back a sob. ‘He liked you so much and he would have been safe and happy with you. I know he didn’t do it. Walter could not kill anything. He was such a gentle boy. He was always concerned and anxious if any person or animal was injured in any way.’

‘He said nothing when he was asked if he had done it.’ Fiona’s eyes were sympathetic but her tone was firm. ‘Why do you think he didn’t deny it, if he had not done it?’

‘I don’t know,’ wept Margaret. And then she mopped her eyes and tried again. ‘At least I do. The boy is terrified of his father. James has been so strict with him. He loves him, but he thinks that Walter has a weak character and that he needs strong handling.’

‘But he was threatened with death, with hanging,’ said Shane in a puzzled way. ‘Surely the fear of that would be worse than the fear of any father.’

Not necessarily, thought Mara. If Walter had been afraid of his father from the time that he was a little boy then he might have the habit of saying nothing when accused; might even feel that it was useless to defend himself if his father had already made up his mind. Someone like Shane, the greatly loved and much valued son of a wise and benevolent man like the Brehon for the O’Neill of Ulster, would not understand that. Aloud she said, ‘I wondered whether he remembered anything from the night before.’

‘You spoke up for him; my maid told me that. James forbade me to go to the trial. He . . . he,’ she gulped again, and then said in a shamefaced way, ‘he locked me into my chamber and took the key away and told the steward not to unlock it until he released me himself. He can’t stand emotion. He’s such a cold man. He doesn’t understand love; he could not understand how I would happily go to the gallows if I could spare my son; how I wanted to stand beside him at that trial. He told me that I shouldn’t go; that it would only upset me. I spoke to my maid through the door and asked her to go.’

‘Whaat! He does think he’s a god! He locked his wife in her bedroom!’ Fiona was stunned at that and Mara felt a cold anger come over her. That poor woman married to that cold, hard, domineering man! She had already determined to do her best for Walter, but this story had reinforced her determination.

‘How did you get out?’ she asked.

Margaret gave a half-smile. ‘I climbed from the window. As a girl, Valentine and I often did that and I found that the skill had not deserted me.’

Mara thought about the case for a moment. How would she approach this if it had happened in her own kingdom? Gather information, was her first instinct always – information about the accused and information about the victim.

‘Does Walter get drunk often?’ she asked.

‘Sometimes,’ admitted Margaret. ‘I try to keep him away from his father when he is like that.’

‘He’s quarrelsome when he’s drunk, then, is he?’ queried Mara, but was not surprised when Margaret shook her head emphatically.

‘No, never,’ she said. ‘He just gets silly and very, very sleepy. He would almost fall asleep standing up even if he was talking to you at the time. They say he was fighting with Carlos Gomez, but that Spanish boy was trying to needle Walter, trying to make him small in Catarina’s eyes. You saw that yourself when we were at Valentine’s place. Normally Walter is very good-natured.’