Laws in Conflict

by Cora Harrison

  At the familiar sound of the Gaelic, Sheedy raised his head.

  ‘Hungry,’ he wailed and Hugh translated.

  Now all eyes were on Sheedy and he responded by looking around the big room in a confused manner.

  ‘I am the king, the king, the king,’ he said in a sing-song voice, looking across at Hugh and nodding his head as Hugh turned the Gaelic words into English.

  Then came a flood of broken phrases. The word ‘hungry’ recurred again and again. Hugh had to struggle to keep up. His face was flushed scarlet and his eyes were large with apprehension, but he kept drawing out the English words to the best of his ability. Mara had thought that she would have to intervene, but was happy to see that there was no need to do so. Neither the lawyers, nor the mayor had liked her fluent Latin, she surmised. Best leave it to Hugh who was shining with earnestness and with perspiration.

  ‘Me a king; me hungry; me fox,’ muttered Sheedy continuously.

  Hugh translated, adding timidly, ‘In our law a hungry fox, that is a hungry man, must be fed, your worship.’ Mara’s eyes shone with pride in him, one of her least able boys. She swore inwardly that, by hook or by crook, this gentle, diffident boy should be got through his examinations.

  Then Sheedy began to scream, ‘Water, me choking, drown him, drown him.’

  ‘He’s mad,’ shouted a brave apprentice from the gallery. There was a chorus of laughter after that and Sheedy stopped screaming and smiled gently up at the gallery. ‘Me king, me king of Galway,’ he said proudly, and this time he waited for the translation before going back with the monotone mutterings about hungry foxes.

  And then, quite suddenly, he stopped. He put his head down on his arms again and it almost seemed as though he had fallen into a sleep.

  ‘Have you finished?’ enquired the mayor. The warder kicked Sheedy and Hugh repeated the words, but Sheedy said no more.

  ‘He’s mad,’ repeated the voice from the gallery.

  ‘The court will be cleared if there are any more comments,’ said the mayor. He paused and then said solemnly, ‘I will now sum up.

  Members of the jury, I advise that you pay very good heed to my words.’

  He then went on to say that the crime was clearly committed by the defendant – the evidence was overwhelming. It had been witnessed by three people of good character; it had not been denied by the defendant, ‘In fact he had the pie in his possession when he was overtaken by the constable.’ Mara listened to him with growing apprehension.

  He paused then and directed a sharp glance at the gallery. ‘No medical evidence has been presented to the court about the defendant’s state of mind. We have provided him with a translator, rather unusually in a city where no one, who does not speak English, has a right to be present, unless they are in the service of someone who will speak for them. We have listened carefully to what he has had to say and I am sure that the young translator rendered his words faithfully. I can find no denial, no new evidence in the prisoner’s words. So, members of the jury, the decision is now yours. Do you wish to retire?’

  There was a short whispered conversation between them and then the foreman spoke up. ‘No, your worship,’ he said.

  Mara’s heart beat fast. Was that a good sign or not?

  ‘And have you all agreed your verdict?’

  ‘Yes, your worship.’ Fiona’s hands were clenched and Hugh had gone very white. Mara signalled to him to return to his place beside her.

  ‘We find the defendant guilty of stealing a pie to the worth of one shilling and sixpence,’ said the leader of the jurymen. He hesitated, and looked at his fellow jurors. ‘But we would . . .’ he said and then stopped. The chief lawyer impatiently gestured to him and he sat down abruptly. The judge received his words impassively. He turned and began, once more, to root around in the box on the table beside him. This time he found what he was looking for and donned a black cap.

  ‘Sheedy O’Connor,’ he said. ‘You have broken the law of this city state of Galway and have stolen goods to the value of more than one shilling. I therefore recommend that you be hung by the neck until you are dead.’

  There was a dead silence in the court. Even the rowdy apprentices and the shop boys celebrating the beginning of the festival were silent. All eyes were fixed on Sheedy who lifted his head once more and then gave a friendly, childlike wave to Hugh.

  It took all of Mara’s self-control to stay silent. Valentine Blake was looking appalled, and despite the fact that bailiffs were supposed to say nothing, he was whispering urgently in his brother-in-law’s ear. Even the senior lawyer, Thomas Lynch, looked at the mayor as one who could change the sentence that had been delivered.

  From the gallery an ugly murmur had begun. The same brave voice called out for the third time, ‘The man is mad.’ And the chant was taken up by other voices. ‘Mad, he’s mad,’ said the voices.

  ‘He should be sent to the good nuns on Nuns’ Island,’ called a woman’s voice.

  Then the mayor stood up. He waited calmly until the voices stopped and the wave of muttering subsided, and then he spoke.

  ‘The sentence is ratified,’ he said. ‘It will take place in one week’s time on Gallows’ Green outside the eastern gate.’

  With deadly accuracy an egg hit him right in the middle of the face and then the uproar began. Cabbage stalks, filthy pieces of mud-soaked linen, a piece of an old shoe were flung at him. The mayor stood firm, thin lips pressed together, cold grey eyes unwavering.

  ‘Constable, clear the gallery,’ roared the senior lawyer, but already, appalled at what they had done, the crowd had begun to tumble out on to the street.

  ‘Come,’ said Mara to her scholars. ‘There is no more that we can do here today. But rest assured, I will not let this matter lie. We have one week, and with God’s help we can achieve much in a week. That man will not get away with this.’

  Six

  Stat. Hiberniae. 14 Hen. III.

  (Blackstone’s Commentaries continued)

  And yet, even in the reign of queen Elizabeth, the wild natives still kept and preserved their Brehon law; which is described to have been ‘a rule of right, unwritten, but delivered by tradition from one to another, in which oftentimes there appeared great shew of equity in determining the right between parties, but in many things repugnant quite both to God’s law and man’s.’ The latter part of which character is alone allowed it under Edward the first and his grandson.

  Mara borrowed four books from Lawyer Bodkin’s scanty library and she and her scholars spent the afternoon going through them in a small back parlour which Jane Bodkin made available to her, placing on the large table a tray of quills and ink jars, as well as refreshing drinks and small cakes, and giving orders for a large bucket of coal to be brought up before withdrawing respectfully. There was no doubt that the good manners of the scholars, well schooled by Mara, had made a big impression on Jane and there probably would be little difficulty if they prolonged their stay. Indeed, she had already cordially issued an invitation and her brother had echoed it.

  However, was there anything they could do for poor Sheedy?

  The scholars were perusing the books in pairs, pausing from time to time to make a note. No one spoke and even Aidan curbed his sense of fun. The scene this morning had appalled them all.

  ‘A seven-year-old can be brought before the court and sentenced to whatsoever punishment fits the crime,’ said Shane in tones of awed disbelief.

  ‘Unless he be a clergyman,’ said Aidan, who was sharing a book with him. He stared at the words in puzzlement. ‘A clergyman is a priest, isn’t he? How can a seven-year-old be a priest?’

  ‘I think it just means able to read or write – attending a clerical school,’ said Mara.

  ‘So if a clergyman, even if he is a fully-grown man, commits a murder, he is just branded on the thumb,’ said Shane with amazement. ‘No fine or anything!’

  ‘I think that was a law brought in by Henry the Second, wasn’t it, Brehon?’ said Moyl
an. ‘I remember reading something about it. Wait a minute! Here it is. He was forced into it by his archbishop Thomas Becket.’

  ‘And now it’s Henry the Eighth,’ said Hugh, gloomily munching a cake. ‘Wish I had known about that before. I could have pretended that Sheedy could read.’

  ‘Not in a court of law; no one should ever lie in a court of law,’ said Mara sharply, and then she looked at his distressed face and said earnestly, ‘Hugh, you did all that could ever be asked of you. And look how the ordinary people in the gallery reacted! By giving Sheedy’s words, simply and exactly, you showed to anyone of sense that the man was mad. These young apprentices were convinced by your words. Do you remember how they cried out the truth? The man is mad, they said.’

  ‘Funny the way they number their kings in England, isn’t it? Eight Henrys so far, isn’t it?’ observed Aidan, tactfully distracting attention from Hugh who looked close to tears.

  ‘I knew a man once who did that with his cows. He called his first cow Buttercup and all her daughters and granddaughters were Buttercup the First, Buttercup the Second and so on,’ said Mara cheerfully. ‘Have you found anything there, Fachtnan?’

  ‘Just something from the Ancient Greeks,’ said Fachtnan, making a neat note and looking at her hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid—’ began Mara but then Fiona interrupted quickly.

  ‘I’ve found something – wait, let me translate it properly. Yes, I think that is right.’ She looked with a bright face around at her fellow scholars.

  ‘This is dated 1484 in the reign of Richard the Third – only three of them, then,’ she said with a quick glance at Aidan.

  ‘That’s less than thirty years ago,’ said Shane with satisfaction.

  ‘And Richard the Third was the king who granted the charter to Galway and all those valuable rights of claiming taxes and prisage to be at the disposal of the mayor,’ put in Mara. ‘The people of Galway should think very highly of Richard the Third.’

  ‘That’s even better then,’ said Fiona. Her eyes were shining with excitement and there was a tremor in her voice as she read.

  ‘?“And that man, though found guilty by the judge, being generally considered to possess no greater understanding than a beast, was granted a royal pardon by . . .”?’ she turned back to the book and read aloud with a flourish.

  ‘?“Ricardus Tertius Rex.”?’

  ‘King Richard the Third,’ translated Hugh.

  ‘Shall we go across to London and talk to King Henry, eighth of that name?’ asked Moylan hopefully.

  ‘That would be the right thing to do,’ said Aidan, nodding a solemn approval of this proposal to extend their holiday indefinitely.

  ‘But isn’t the mayor the representative of the king?’ asked Shane. ‘You told us that didn’t you, Brehon.’

  ‘That’s right, Shane,’ said Fachtnan, seeing that Mara was busy with her thoughts. ‘I would think that the mayor could grant a royal pardon to Sheedy if he wished to do so.’

  ‘This is wonderful,’ said Mara eventually. She paused and thought for another moment. ‘We will do nothing today,’ she said decidedly. ‘So far, we have avoided causing any great annoyance to James Lynch and this must continue. Hugh did well today – I thought he would, and as usual I am glad to be proved right,’ she went on, pretending not to notice the smiles exchanged between Aidan and Fiona. ‘If we meet the mayor tonight during the course of the festivities then you will all greet him politely and with due remembrance of his high office here in Galway. Tomorrow I will take this law book and go to see him at the Guildhall. A royal pardon, that’s what a man who is known as sovereign can grant.’

  The streets of Galway that night were a wonderful sight. Every window of the tall tower houses and stately homes of the city was lit up with candles. Torches made from pitch tar, harvested from pine trees, flared from iron holders in every corner of the streets and there were musicians everywhere.

  ‘Different music to ours, but very pretty,’ said Hugh approvingly, pausing beside a man and listening intently to the song. And then an arm was flung around his shoulders and a strong young voice was singing the words, harmonizing with the lute player. In a few minutes, the boys and Fiona, all trained to memorize verse, had joined in also.

  ‘Come with me, all of you. I’ll show you the city,’ said Walter Lynch, flashing his irresistible smile at Mara, and then turning to the musician, he said, ‘you come, too, good fellow, here’s something for you. Let’s go to the Brownes’ place. I want to serenade my cousin.’ Something that flashed like gold was slipped into the man’s hand and Mara saw his eyes widen at young Walter Lynch’s generosity.

  The tower house belonging to the Browne family was near to St Nicholas’s Church. Walter arranged his singers and the lute player on either side of the steep steps and then waited expectantly. First came Philip Browne, his son David and his Spanish wife Isabelle. The high sides of the stone balustrade hid the musicians and they did not look down, but came straight across to Mara, inviting her to accompany them to the service at St Nicholas’s Church.

  ‘In a moment,’ said Mara, indicating the young people across the road. ‘I must tell Fachtnan where I am going and leave him in charge of the other scholars.’

  ‘They will be quite safe,’ assured Isabelle. ‘The mayor pays the constables a double wage tonight to make sure that all is well within the town.’

  ‘Any rowdy young people usually go outside the city walls, to The Green or down to the meadows by the sea; that’s right, David, isn’t it?’ Philip Browne dug his son in the ribs.

  ‘Not me, sir,’ said David. ‘I’m supposed to look for a wife tonight, or so my father bids me,’ he confided in Mara, lowering his voice to a mock whisper. ‘The trouble is she has to be wealthy as I am not a very good merchant, not like my Spanish cousins.’ He laughed heartily and Mara suspected that he was not that poor. He was certainly very richly dressed.

  ‘Ah, here they come, the pair of them!’ said Philip as, above the laughter and the noise, he heard the sound of his front door opening. He and his wife turned to face their house and at that moment the lute player strummed a few notes and began to sing, accompanied by the other young people. Walter Lynch swept off his hat and perched on top of the stone balustrade, singing lustily:

  ‘Greensleeves was all my joy;

  Greensleeves was my delight;

  Greensleeves was my heart of gold;

  And who but my lady Greensleeves.’

  But then his voice faltered. He got down from his perch and stood rather miserably at the bottom of the steps.

  Catarina was not alone. Her arm was tucked into the arm of her handsome and very rich cousin, Carlos Gomez. For a moment Mara thought Walter would turn and disappear into the crowd, or perhaps rejoin her scholars, but Catarina was too quick for him.

  ‘Walter!’ she cried. ‘How lovely! Did you arrange that? And how did you know that I was going to wear my green gown? You’ve been bribing my maid, haven’t you?’

  And he probably had, thought Mara with amusement. Catarina wore a Spanish style of gown with the bodice and skirt fashioned from pale green silk, shot with silver, and the sleeves were made from brilliantly moss-green velvet. Her fur cloak was pulled well back in order to display the dress and it hung in graceful folds down her back from her shoulders.

  ‘Oh do get them to sing it again,’ called Catarina. She was enjoying the picture she made as she stood there with her arm tucked into that of her Spanish suitor, while her childhood sweetheart stood humbly at the bottom of the steps. A crowd had gathered as if a play were about to be performed.

  ‘Carlos brought her that cloak as a gift from Spain,’ confided Isabelle. ‘It’s made from the finest miniver. She’s a lucky girl.’ Her eyes were thoughtful as they looked across the street and saw what a little tableau of opulence the girl and her wealthy cousin made, standing there together in front of the ornate doorway, its two marble pillars framing the pair and the studded oak door forming a background t
o them.

  And then the song finished. Catarina, still keeping a firm hold on to her cousin, came down the steps and tucked her other arm into Walter’s. As they went down the narrow pavement the crowds stepped on to the street to allow them to pass.

  Well, thought Mara, to herself, I can foresee this ending in trouble.

  ‘Mara!’ called a merry voice. ‘My lady judge! I’ve been searching for you. Lawyer Bodkin told me you had just left. Have you forgotten that you promised to come with me to visit my favourite pie shop?’

  ‘How could I!’ exclaimed Mara. She would be delighted to go with Margaret, who was chatty and amusing, whereas the Browne family were a little dull – and a pie shop sounded to be more fun than a church. ‘Just let me have a word with my scholars first.’

  She crossed the street, conscious of the fact that Margaret’s greetings to the Browne family were quite subdued. Walter’s doting mother did not like her son’s place beside the beautiful Catarina to have to be shared with Carlos Gomez.

  ‘And Fiona, you must stay with the boys at all times. There will be lots of drinking and stupid behaviour going on,’ she finished, conscious of her responsibility towards a pretty girl like Fiona.

  ‘Of course,’ said Fiona virtuously. She made herself as tall as someone as tiny as she was could possibly manage and flirtatiously took Moylan’s arm, and Fachtnan’s also, gazing adoringly from one to the other and vigorously fluttering her eyelashes.

  ‘You’re not big enough,’ said Aidan, surveying her critically. ‘You just look silly down there between the two of them. And, to be very honest,’ he added, ‘you’re not as beautiful as Catarina, anyway.’

  ‘Just you wait until you next need help with a Latin translation!’ said Fiona, narrowing her eyes menacingly at him while Fachtnan glanced down at her, smiling lovingly. He looked away, flushing slightly when he saw that he was observed and Mara sighed.