The Fanatic (31 page)

It was seven months since he had seen him on the Bass, and those months seemed to have turned him the slate-grey colour of the sea. He was so gaunt and ill-looking, and seemed so disinterested in the proceedings of the court, that he exuded almost an air of nobility. People watching him limp in, Lauder thought, would be reminded of what had been done to him. They would be reminded of Hew McKail and others like him. They would see the ranked judges, the lords and gentry and lawyers like himself sitting in the best seats, and they would realise how the odds were stacked. Against this assemblage Mitchel would seem the man of principle, the poor man bullied and tortured by his superiors. The people would rally to him like the underdog he was. Not for the first time, John Lauder regretted that he had ended up so visibly in the company of Sir Andrew and his cronies.

Mackenzie opened by declaring that he would not be calling Sir Archibald Primrose, Lord Carringtoun, as a witness, seeing he was Lord Justice General and presiding over the court.

John Eleis returned on behalf of the panel that they accepted the Lord Justice General as a judge, notwithstanding his being cited as a witness both by pursuer and defender. A murmur of opinion went round the lawyers in the audience.

‘Ye were richt,’ Sir Andrew said. ‘And noo I’ll tell ye somethin else
I
ken. Primrose is a sleekit, snoovin snake, and nane o the pleaders had better fash him if they want tae win this case. On the contrary, I doot they’ll aw be gleg tae be freens wi him.’

The ex-provost’s opinion only added to Lauder’s growing feeling that, like Mitchel, Primrose might, in some perverse way, represent a principle in the case. ‘He’s been in this world ower lang tae depend muckle on freens,’ he replied.

‘That’ll be why he disna hae ony,’ Sir Andrew said, settling back in his seat. Within a few minutes he was nodding, half-asleep.

The whole of the first day was taken up with legal arguments so rarefied that, apart from the three advocates making them, they went over the heads of almost everybody, including some of the judges. James Mitchel denied the
charges against him. Thereafter he took no part in the proceedings. He would sit throughout the trial like a man on a mountain looking down on tiny men at work in a field below.

Meanwhile the lawyers thrashed things out among themselves. Eleis droned on majestically, half the time in Latin, attempting to prove the whole business a sham. Mitchel should not be at the bar at all, he said. There was no such crime in Scotland as assassination, and even if there were Mitchel could not be guilty of it since nobody was killed (the Bishop of Orkney having died, but some years later after having been able to go about his ordinary functions as a bishop, and not in any event on account of wounds sustained when shot at on the occasion alleged). As to the demembration of the said Bishop of Orkney, Eleis continued, the twenty-eighth Act of King James IV
anno
1491 made it not a capital offence: the Bishop had sustained merely a wound to the hand, not had it cut off, and therefore could not be said to have been dismembered in any case; and the wound having been received, as stated in the libel, accidentally from a shot fired at the Archbishop of St Andrews, no malice aforethought could be attached to the act of injuring the Bishop of Orkney. Moreover, the libel seemed to be founded solely or principally on a confession, and that confession, if made at all (which the panel denied), was made extrajudicially and neither before a quorum of justices nor in presence of jurors and therefore held no legal weight and was expressly contrary to the law as contained in the ninetieth act of the seventh parliament of King James VI made for security of panels from unjust procedures against them; but, and again not admitting the confession, any such confession had, would and could only have been made in return for a promise of life; and furthermore and insofar as and notwithstanding all of the afore-mentioned …

The crowd, those that were standing and therefore unable to doze, grew restless. There were a large number of women among it. Neither they nor most of the men could make anything of the Latin-speckled giff-gaff of the lawyers but they tolerated it from Eleis and Lockhart, because they could see that their web of words was designed to entangle the prosecution and get Mitchel off. But whenever Mackenzie
rose to speak, a noise went round the court like a rumbling cundie.

Mackenzie, in his forties and supremely confident in demeanour, appeared to take no notice of this. He was in his element as he replied to an argument of Eleis, as Lockhart duplied to him, as he returned a further argument, and so forth: the lawyers were like mechanics working expertly on an apparatus no one else understood. But the crowd had a mob’s instinct for detecting the opposition’s discomfort and exacerbating it, and it was to be found elsewhere than with the King’s Advocate.

George Hickes had come in the long black coat of his calling. English, Episcopalian and gloating, he made too tempting a target. In the middle of one of Mackenzie’s speeches, somebody launched an apple core at Hickes, which bounced off his shoulder, leaving a faint smear of juice. There was a ripple of laughter. The court officers scanned the crowd, trying to pick out the culprit, but all they could really do was stand cross-armed and glare. As soon as their attention was diverted, another missile would fly at Hickes – more fruit, a bit of cheese. If it missed him it usually hit someone else nearby. John Lauder moved to the extremity of the bench he was on, and managed to avoid the worst of it. Next to him Sir Andrew Ramsay slumped, snoring gently and unaware of an old heel of bread which was caught on the back of his wig. When his neck rolled or twitched the bread jigged in agreement and was greeted with delight by those behind him. Then somebody fired a long green gob as if out of a mortar, and it sailed like a flying slug through the air and attached itself to the collar of Hickes’s coat. This was an encouragement to the bored younger men in the crowd. Over the next few minutes, Hickes’s shoulders and back became spotted and streaked with slicks of varying colour and consistency. When he raised his voice in protest, one of the court officers, who could not see the cause of his complaint, hissed at him to be quiet.

John Lauder kept as much distance as he could between himself and his father-in-law, and tried to concentrate on the trial. He felt that his loyalty lay with John Eleis, and he was fascinated by the procession of arguments. He watched the
aloof Mitchel, who never once looked in his direction, and thought he appeared the very model of a fanatic.

Meanwhile the lawyers battled on across the big table. By late afternoon the judges were as weary as the onlookers. They wanted more time to consider the arguments. The trial, Lord Carringtoun announced, would be held over until the Wednesday, to commence at two in the afternoon. Mitchel was taken back to the Tolbooth, and the court rose.

Lauder did not see his cousin John over the next two days. He was hard at work with Lockhart, trying to make the best of their material. Nobody really believed, however well argued their case for dismissal, that the court would throw the case out when it reconvened. There were too many reputations at stake, too much pressure being applied by the government. But in the Wednesday forenoon, Eleis called to see him, and they walked together out to Greyfriars and back again to court.

‘We hae a chance,’ Eleis said. ‘Or I should say, Mitchel has a chance, where a witch would hae nane. It’s because we’re up against Mackenzie, and Mackenzie must win by law, whereas a witch is condemned by sentiment and superstition. Still, I amna ower hopeful. The opinions we and he brocht afore the bench on Monday balanced each ither, by and large, which means they cancelled each ither oot. On that basis, they’ll say the indictment is competent.’

‘Then whit else stands between Mitchel and the hangman?’

Eleis smiled. ‘I canna tell ye,’ he said. ‘It’s anither o thae secrets aboot Mitchel, like the yin you had. But I can say this. We hae a weapon that may be enough tae cut him free.’

‘Whit kind o weapon? A deposition? A witness?’

‘It’s a proof,’ Eleis said. ‘That’s aw I can say. It was pit intae oor hauns last nicht.’

‘Then it’s a new production. If Mackenzie hasna been advised o its existence it winna be admitted.’

‘Aye it will. It comes frae a guid source.’

‘Where?’

Eleis shook his head. ‘Watch the bench closely this eftirnune,’ he said.

Sir Archibald Primrose, Lord Justice General, opened the
proceedings. The charges in the dittay were to stand, he said. The confession made by the panel had been made before the Committee of the Council, and was therefore judicial, and could not be retracted. The confession had not been elicited by torture, since it had been made prior to same, and on a different occasion. The trial would proceed.

‘However,’ Primrose added, looking at Sir George Mackenzie, ‘we also find the alleged promise of life and limb, made in return for the panel’s confession, to be relevant.’

Mackenzie was on his feet. ‘My lord, the existence of such a promise is a mere speculation. The panel does not even acknowledge the confession.’

‘But my lord,’ said Primrose, ‘there
is
a confession. Your case depends on it. All we are saying is, ye cannot have the confession and yet not have anything that might appertain to it. That is the basis on which we continue.’

‘But my lord …’

‘That is the basis on which we continue. We spent Monday on this matter and we will not spend today on it. Our friends on the assize will decide what is speculation and what is fact from the evidence presented to them. They will now be sworn in.’

John Lauder, listening intently, detected more than the usual smugness in Primrose’s voice. The judge was hinting at something, he was sure of it. He saw Eleis conferring with Lockhart. Lauder was sitting alone today: Hickes and others, in spite of the treatment they had received on the Monday, were back as well, but Sir Andrew had declared the proceedings too tedious, and gone to Fife. Lauder had not tried to dissuade him.

Mackenzie’s confidence seemed to return as he watched the jurors being sworn. An apothecary, a couple of wine merchants, a tailor, a merchant or two – well, these might swing either way. But the other nine were all soldiers or gentlemen, government men. A clear majority before Mackenzie even started, and a majority was all he needed. The defence objected to several of them, but was overruled.

Mackenzie nodded curtly to Lockhart and Eleis. They nodded back. He cast a cold eye on James Mitchel, who was staring into space. Then he let his gaze pass over the public,
more numerous even than they had been two days before, for today, everybody knew, the fanatic’s fate would be decided. Already there was a tension in the atmosphere. The King’s Advocate’s survey of his audience seemed to be saying, ‘I will overcome you all.’

The first witness was a bulky, dour-looking man, an advocate himself, William Paterson. John Lauder knew him – all the legal brethren knew him. He seemed, for a man habitually in courts, to be most uncomfortable. His eyes kept shifting to the defence lawyers, as if he wished to apologise for being there at all.

Mackenzie asked him if he recalled the day when the archbishop was shot at, in July 1668. He did. And did he recall being out in the town that day, in the afternoon? He did. Whereabouts? He was walking up Blackfriars Wynd. When was this, roughly? About four o’clock. And did he meet anyone? He did. Whom did he meet? He met an armed man coming down the street. How was this man armed? He had a pistol in his hand. Would this be before or after the firing of a pistol at the Archbishop? After. How did he know that? There was a commotion in the street, which he learnt was caused by the attack on the Archbishop. And did he see the man with the pistol in the court today? He did not.

Mackenzie gave him a slow, deadly look.

‘Ye do not?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Ye saw the man clearly?’

‘Aye.’

‘Yet ye do not see him here.’

‘No.’

Mackenzie indicated Mitchel. ‘Do ye recognise this man at all?’

‘No.’

‘If I put it to ye that this is the man ye saw, would ye think it possible?’

‘I canna say. It’s ten year syne.’

‘But is it
possible
?’

‘I dinna ken this man. I canna say if he was the person that shot at the Archbishop. That is the truth as I shall answer God.’

Mackenzie sat down, annoyed but not exasperated. He had better witnesses, and would not waste time because this one had balked at the fence. Lockhart and Eleis declined to question, and Paterson stepped down with evident relief.

The next witness was Patrick Vanse, keeper of the Tolbooth. He was a handsome, dark-haired man in his forties, who had taken some trouble to look his best for his day in court. He stood very upright as he was sworn in, and answered the questions put to him with an abruptness that was at first impressive, but then began to seem just a little too well rehearsed. Mackenzie took him back four years, to 1674, when Mitchel was held in the Tolbooth. Had the panel, during that time when he was in his custody, ever said anything to Vanse about the assassination attempt?

‘Aye, my lord, he did.’

‘When was that?’

‘Twa days afore he was examined by the Cooncil, my lord.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘That he’d shot a pistol at the Archbishop o St Andrews, my lord.’

‘He told ye that? This man that ye see here?’

‘Aye.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘That he escaped doon Blackfriars Wynd, my lord, and gaed up the Cougate and intae Maister Fergusson’s hoose, anither rebel, my lord, where he pit on a periwig, and syne he cam back oot on the street and huntit himsel.’

There were a few laughs. Lauder noticed that Mitchel was paying closer attention than he had at any time so far during the trial.

‘What do ye mean,
he huntit himsel?
’ Mackenzie asked.

‘He pretended tae search for the man that had shot the pistol,’ Vanse said. ‘But it was himsel that had done it.’

Mackenzie gave way to the defence. Sir George Lockhart approached Vanse and said, in a friendly manner, ‘Your evidence is most precise, sir. Ye have a excellent memory. Ye must have had dozens, hundreds of prisoners pass through your portals in the last four years. Each with their own story to tell.’