Laws in Conflict

by Cora Harrison

  Life was difficult for young people, she thought. Handsome young Walter was in love with Catarina but, she guessed, Catarina was more interested in Carlos Gomez; Fachtnan was in love with Fiona who had just a comradely affection for him. And back in the Burren waited Nuala, the young physician who adored Fachtnan, without any hope, now, of his returning her feelings.

  What a tangle, she thought, as she handed over some silver coins to Fachtnan and crossed back to join Margaret and make her apologies to the Browne couple.

  ‘Little minx,’ said Margaret angrily as they went down Gate Street together.

  ‘Who, Fiona?’

  ‘No, of course not, she’s sweet and just having fun. It’s Catarina. She has an eye to the whole of the Gomez fortune instead of being content with a slice of it. Mark my words; she’ll throw over my Walter if she gets a chance to have Carlos.’

  ‘Are the family of Carlos so rich, though?’ asked Mara.

  ‘My dear! Immensely! You have no idea! Such a fortune!’

  ‘Well, Walter’s very young,’ said Mara consolingly. ‘He’ll find another girl. He’s a handsome lad. My Fiona was eyeing him yesterday before Catarina came on the scene.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘Walter is a boy whose feelings go very deep. He’s such a sensitive boy. I think it will break his heart. It’s not the fortune that Catarina will bring; I don’t think that he cares tuppence for that. Though, to be honest,’ she added, ‘I’m pleased about the fortune because the prospect of it stops my husband nagging at the boy to make something of himself; to set himself up as a merchant even if he doesn’t like the fish or the coal business. James gets very disappointed and displeased with poor Walter and I’m the one that has to keep the peace between them.’

  Not an easy father, perhaps, to disappoint and displease, thought Mara, but she kept her thoughts to herself, and questioned Margaret about the pie shop.

  ‘It’s just down near the inlet from the sea on Bridge Gate Street. It’s a very respectable place, I can assure you, owned by one of the Blakes – a man called William Blake – and the Blakes are always respectable.’ She laughed merrily at the thought of that and then said, with an anxious glance at Mara, ‘You’re not worried about going to a pie shop unescorted, are you? I can assure you it’s quite safe. My husband has paid for extra constables to be on duty tonight and he himself walks the streets continually on an evening like this. It’s very important to him that Galway is a well-run city. He won’t tolerate any rowdy behaviour within the walls.’

  ‘Marvellously well-kept streets,’ said Mara politely, surveying the clean, well-brushed pavements, and the street with its kennel running freely down the centre. Compared to the country lanes that she was used to it was smelly, but three thousand people were a lot to be herded up together in such a small space. A bit like this new practice of keeping pigs in a pig sty rather than allowing them to roam through woodland, she thought, and listened politely to the details of how much money James Lynch spent on maintaining the streets.

  ‘This is why he’s been elected year after year,’ said Margaret, with wifely pride. ‘People know that he’s not like some of the other mayors.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You should see the Athys’ tower house. Richard Athy was mayor for three years before James was elected. He was in a small way before he had a few years as mayor, and now he’s importing horses from Spain and selling them all over Ireland.’ She gave a hasty look around and hissed in Mara’s ear. ‘Not a penny spent on the streets and the walls during that time, but a fine new house and business built for himself.’

  Mara nodded and murmured some remark about admiring the walls during her walk yesterday to The Green. She had also, during that walk, seen the splendid Athy tower house which was probably the tallest house in Galway and was set inside some magnificent-looking gardens. Although she wasn’t here to take sides but, if possible, to rescue her fellow countryman, she encouraged Margaret to go on talking about her husband. The more she could understand James Lynch the easier it might be to successfully sue for a ‘royal pardon’ on behalf of poor insane Sheedy. A man who wanted to be just, wanted to do the right thing, she mused. It might be possible to talk to him privately – perhaps he might issue that royal pardon to celebrate some feast or other, or something like that. He would need some such face-saving excuse. It would be out of character for him to admit that he had made a mistake by passing that death sentence. She would stay a few extra days, she decided. The Bodkins had seemed genuine when they issued the invitation. The scholars were enjoying themselves and it was good for them to see a different mode of life and to realize the importance of safeguarding the ancient Brehon law of their forebears.

  ‘There’s Valentine,’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘How now, brother, what have you done with your lady wife?’

  ‘Little Jonathon isn’t well and she didn’t want to leave him,’ said Valentine. He was well dressed in a black velvet padded doublet, embroidered with gold and matched with black hose. The flamboyant garments enhanced his dark good looks. ‘Oh, it’s nothing!’ he continued hastily. ‘Not even a fever – just sniffling and feeling sorry for himself, poor little fellow. I hate to see him like that. Cecily told me to go out as I was fussing too much over him and making him feel worse. Good evening, Brehon – you see that I remembered your title!’

  ‘Go ahead and find us a table at Blake’s pie shop,’ said Margaret, while Mara reflected on the warm-hearted charm of the Blake family. Valentine had spoken lightly of his baby son, but it was obvious that the child was deeply loved. Why on earth had Margaret married a cold man like James Lynch? As they had passed through the junction between Bridge Street and Market Street she had glimpsed his tall, spare figure making its way down the pavement, looking neither to right nor to left – not even acknowledging the salutes of those who had drawn back in order to allow him to pass.

  ‘Valentine adores that little Jonathon,’ confided Margaret as they made their way slowly down the street, pausing to greet almost every second person. ‘Of course, like myself, he had a string of girls in his first marriage. You should have seen him when the little fellow was born. You won’t believe this, but he was crying with joy!’

  Valentine had secured a table by the time they arrived. To Mara’s surprise the tables were not inside the pie shop, but arranged around several charcoal braziers in a small, walled yard beside the shop. Their table was in a prime position with its back to one brazier and another straight in front of them. Large square blocks of limestone were heating under each brazier and serving boys, their hands well protected with wads of sacking, placed them at the feet of the customers. The walls were high enough to keep in the heat and the starry sky above made a magnificent ceiling.

  Valentine was not alone. Beside him was Walter; a rather silent Walter who was drinking heavily, slopping wine from a jug into a large goblet. There were two empty wine jugs already on the table and Mara saw his mother’s eyes go straight to them while she embraced her son with a fierce hug.

  He smiled at that and was not too drunk to rise politely and greet Mara, but he was unsteady on his feet.

  ‘You need something to eat,’ said Margaret, sending an apprehensive glance towards the street. ‘Don’t let your father see you like that.’

  ‘I’ve ordered two pies,’ said Valentine reassuringly. He sniffed at the almost emptied jug. ‘Portuguese wine!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ll have a sore head in the morning, young man, if you drink any more of this stuff,’ he said warningly. ‘That’s six times stronger than ordinary wine!’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ said Walter angrily. ‘As for my father; I don’t care that much for him.’ He snapped his fingers contemptuously in the air and then hiccupped abruptly.

  ‘Here comes the pie,’ said Margaret, gazing anxiously at her beloved boy.

  Easy to see what had happened, thought Mara. The older and more experienced Carlos had probably got tired of the threesome – perhaps taunted young Walter – and then if Catarina had laughed, well, th
at would have been enough for a sensitive boy. He would have taken himself off and sought comfort in wine. Mara wished that her scholars had been with her. Fachtnan would have been good with Walter – although they were much of an age, Fachtnan was mature and sensitive in his dealings with the young.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely pie!’ she exclaimed aloud when the food arrived. Walter would be better without the attention of three adults focused on him so Mara spent the next few minutes admiring the pie and asking for details of its filling.

  It was a large, round pie, placed on an even larger round plate. The swirling patterns of the plate – Spanish, guessed Mara – were echoed in the curved slices of apple and pear which crowned the pie, radiating out from the centre until they touched the crisp, golden pastry shell. Valentine cut it into large slices and ladled one carefully on to Mara’s plate. She tasted it appreciatively.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘What on earth is in it? There are so many flavours.’

  ‘Goods from all over the world,’ said Valentine gaily, while Margaret popped a square from her own slice into Walter’s mouth. ‘There’s cheese from the town of Brie in France, oranges from Spain and wine from Portugal, saffron and ginger from the east, pheasant from England.’ He spun out the list of ingredients to an almost impossible length, while Margaret tried to feed a bit more pie into Walter and Mara savoured the rounded full-bodied taste from the jug of wine that Valentine had ordered.

  ‘And salt from Valentine Blake,’ said Margaret, but at that moment, Walter snatched the jug of strong Portuguese wine from the table, upended it over his mouth, put it back and staggered off.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I do hope that James will not see him like that,’ said Margaret with a sigh.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Valentine. ‘Enjoy your pie while it’s hot, and your wine, of course. Every young man gets drunk from time to time.’

  ‘I’m just afraid that he will meet them again and that he and Carlos will come to blows,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Probably the best thing that could happen, you know. Carlos Gomez is not a bad fellow. Responsible sort of man, too. He handled that affair of the captain of his father’s ship, that Alfonso Mercandez, very well.’ He turned to Mara and continued in a whisper. ‘Carlos found that Alfonso Mercandez has been stealing from his father for years – getting merchants in Galway to pay high prices for the goods that he carried and then subtracting a large chunk before he brought the money back. Of course, the Gomez family are very rich but no one likes to be cheated. Carlos mentioned it to him – he lied and pretended that he knew nothing – but as young Gomez said to me, he decided that it would be best to leave the matter until they returned to Spain and he had all his father’s account books. In the meantime, of course, he has been going around discreetly questioning people like your friend Lawyer Bodkin about the actual prices they paid for horses and other goods.’

  ‘I don’t care how clever and discreet he is,’ said Margaret unhappily. ‘I don’t want my Walter getting into a fight with him – not tonight of all nights. James would never forgive him, or me, either, if his own son was one to break the peace.’

  ‘I’ll go and search for him and put his head under the nearest pump once I’ve finished my pie,’ promised Valentine. ‘You take our visitor to see the apprentices’ mystery play in the churchyard and I’ll scour the streets. Once I have him sobered up a little I’ll join you there.’

  Jane Bodkin was already in the churchyard waiting for the play to begin, though she explained that her brother was not too keen on plays and found them rather tedious. As they had promised, a bench was reserved for their visitors and a few minutes after Mara arrived, Fachtnan appeared. As they made their way forward, Mara counted heads and was relieved to see that all six were present. Their cheeks were flushed by the excitement, but Fachtnan assured her that they had had no more than a goblet of hot, spiced wine flavoured with the oranges from Spain and Portugal whose exotic taste and smell seemed to be everywhere on these Shrove ceremonies.

  ‘It’s the story of the three kings visiting the child Jesus,’ explained Jane, leaning across so that the younger boys could hear her. ‘The goldsmith’s and silversmith’s apprentices take the part of the kings. Master Tanner is Herod and his apprentices are the soldiers. One of the innkeepers in Galway always plays the innkeeper part, directing the strangers to the stable, and then the wool merchants’ apprentices play the part of the shepherds.’

  Philip and Isabelle Browne were sitting just opposite to them. Margaret had joined her husband in the front row, but Mara could see that she continually looked over her shoulder as though waiting to see Walter appear.

  The Brownes, also, were looking around and seemed relieved when Catarina appeared. She was alone, though. Either Carlos had decided that he was not interested in the play, or else Valentine Browne had perhaps taken the two young men off to sober up and perhaps even to fight off their differences.

  Whatever had happened, neither Carlos Gomez nor Walter Lynch had appeared by the time that the play had finished.

  Seven

  Annals of Clonmacnoise

  (13th century)

  The Brehons of Ireland are divided into several clans and families as the McKiegans, O’Davorans, O’Brisleans, McTholies and Mac Clancies. Every kingdom has his peculiar Brehon dwelling within it, that has the power to decide the cases of that country and to maintain their controversies against their neighbour-countries, for which service they hold lands of the lord of the kingdom where they dwell.

  ‘Sleep in tomorrow morning – we won’t breakfast until about ten o’clock,’ were Jane Bodkin’s last words to her guests on returning from the play that night. ‘Henry’s not home yet,’ she had said slightly disapprovingly, noting the candle left on the table near the hall door after the others had taken theirs. ‘I suppose he is talking with friends in one of the inns; the men often don’t bother going to see the play – of course, it’s the same play every year,’ she had added as she took her own candle and made sure that her guests had everything they required.

  Mara, however, had her own internal clock that woke her at seven in the morning whether winter or summer. She decided to get up and rekindle her coal fire herself. The ewer of water on the pot stand was still faintly warm and once the flames began to leap up it soon heated enough to make washing pleasant.

  Mara’s mind was busy with thoughts of James Lynch. What was the best way to approach him, she wondered? Would it be a good idea to take her scholars, or to go privately by herself? The latter, she decided. From what she had seen of him so far he was a self-contained, private person. He had taken no part in the merriment of the night before, had not even gone to see the play, but had ceaselessly patrolled the streets. Her last glimpse of him had been at the market place where his icy voice had penetrated the drunken laughter of some young men and had caused them to move swiftly away, heading towards the town gate – no doubt planning to carry on drinking in The Green, or somewhere else well outside the city walls.

  Logic, precedents; that would be the way to approach this man, she decided. He had his virtues; Mara believed what Margaret had said about her husband’s probity – this was a well-maintained city. When she had walked around with Henry Bodkin she had noticed that there were men at work on the walls, men at work on the pavements, on the roads and also on the ornate gardens outside the city where the trees were neatly pruned and the paths well swept.

  A man like James Lynch would not be moved by a plea for mercy, but he might be influenced by a well-reasoned argument which was based on the laws that he upheld and was backed by a judgement given by Richard III, that English king, who had founded the prosperity of the city of Galway. The man, judge though he professed to be, was quite ignorant of the law which he was sanctioned to uphold, but would he be willing to learn from an outsider?

  Mara took a quill, ink horn and some vellum from one of her satchels, lit a second candle and sat down at the small table and opened one of Henry’s law boo
ks. After half an hour she had a page of notes which she gazed at with satisfaction. By herself, she decided. This was a man who would not like witnesses to his change of mind.

  And if she succeeded then she would return to the Burren on the following morning. She was lonely for the fresh air, the open spaces and the swirling limestone mountains. Hopefully they would take Sheedy with them. Her son-in-law, Oisín, kept a string of pack ponies, one of which she could, she was sure, even in his absence, borrow in order to take the poor old fellow back to his own environment where the law would protect rather than accuse him.

  By this time there was a cautious stirring on the stairs and when Mara went to the door she saw a maidservant emerge from Fiona’s room with a bucket of fresh coals in her hand. She smiled at the girl and went in to find that Fiona, to her surprise, was not yawning in her bed, but already up with a wrapper around her and was standing at the window.

  ‘Brehon, come and see. It’s a holiday today; I’m sure of that. Someone was talking about that last night; being pleased about not having to get up for work. Today is Ash Wednesday, so everyone should be either in bed recovering or at church receiving the holy ashes, but the streets are full. The whole city seems to be in some sort of fuss about something,’ she said with a puzzled expression. Mara crossed over to stand beside her scholar. Her own rooms faced the inlet from the sea, but Fiona’s was full of the morning light and Lombard Street lay beneath her windows.

  There was something odd about the crowd. Mara felt her own brows knit. If, indeed, this was a holiday, she would have expected to see people chatting, laughing, perhaps some yawning – a few with sore heads. But the people in the street below them huddled together in small groups, whispering, glancing over their shoulders, their eyes wide with shock. Sometimes a newcomer joined a group, was told some news and then a hand was clapped to a mouth in a gesture of horror.