Laws in Conflict

by Cora Harrison

  She had seen something else, also. The dead man’s dagger was still neatly tucked into its hilt on his belt. Mara bent over the corpse, praying softly and making the sign of the cross over the dead man’s chest. Adroitly and working from the shelter of her large, flowing sleeves, she managed to withdraw Carlos’s dagger from the hilt. The steel shone clean and unmarked in the light of the candelabrum placed beside the body. Hastily she returned it and moved on and took her place in the returning queue. This was no drunken fight, she thought, that had resulted in the death of one of the protagonists. This, indeed, was murder.

  But why had Carlos, a strong, fit-looking young man with a bold, resolute face, allowed someone to come up and stab him in the chest, right in front of his eyes, without making any effort to draw his own dagger?

  Mara cast a quick look over her shoulder. The woman behind her in the queue was talking over her shoulder in sibilant whispers to a friend.

  ‘Where was he found?’ she was saying. Mara listened eagerly to the reply and nodded her head when she found that it had been on the shore of Lough Atalia.

  ‘Just beside the windmill,’ said another voice – ‘just lying there above the water. The miller found them at dawn – the two of them. The Spaniard was as stiff as a poker and young Lynch was fast asleep.’

  Strange to go to sleep after committing a murder, thought Mara. Why didn’t he leave the place as soon as possible – put a distance between himself and the body? Still, perhaps Walter Lynch had collapsed from the effect of alcohol. Mara crossed herself and continued to follow the people making their way out of the church, giving a quick signal to the scholars to join her. She had found out what she wanted to know.

  By the time they came out of the church town criers were already broadcasting the news at the street corner.

  ‘Anyone with any knowledge of the whereabouts of the late Carlos Gomez or of Walter Lynch during the hours of nine in the evening and seven of this morning must go to the courthouse and give evidence.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the Bodkin house,’ said Mara. Henry would not be at work today so it would be interesting to talk to him.

  ‘We saw Walter a few times during the evening, but I’m not too sure about the time,’ said Fachtnan hesitantly. ‘He was pretty drunk; he could barely stand. The last time we talked with him was quite late. He came up to us when we were chatting to a man called Richard Athy and his family. There were young children there so I took him away. I wanted him to go home but he broke away from me. He seemed to want to be on his own so I let him go.’

  ‘Then you must go and give your evidence at the courthouse,’ said Mara instantly. She would find it easier to talk to Henry alone; he was a reserved man and would be wary of giving his opinion in front of sharp young ears. Quickly, she doled out some money to Fachtnan and told him that he could take the others to Blake’s pie shop after they had given their evidence. The terrible news of the morning had meant that they had all missed breakfast and they were probably already quite hungry.

  Henry was there when she arrived at the Bodkin tower house. She saw his tall thin form standing at the window of the parlour as she came up the steps and he, himself, came to open the door for her. He looked drawn and tired, she thought, as she followed him into the parlour, refusing all offers of food and drink and shutting the door firmly behind her.

  ‘What will happen at court this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Who will be the judge?’

  ‘It has to be the sovereign, the mayor,’ he said. ‘Our system is the same as the city states of Venice or Verona where the duke is always the judge.’

  ‘What happens if he is ill?’

  ‘The case is postponed.’

  ‘So he will sit in judgement of his own son. What will the charge be?’

  Lawyer Bodkin hesitated for a moment and when he spoke he did not really answer her question. ‘You are the second person that I opened that door to during the last half hour,’ he said. ‘The first was Valentine Blake. He asked me to act for his nephew; to be a defence lawyer in this case. Do you have such a thing in your law system?’

  ‘We do,’ said Mara. ‘Anyone who is summoned to appear before a court of justice has a right to have a lawyer with him to argue his case.’ She did not add that it had not happened in one of her courts for at least ten years. The people of the Burren were willing to accept her judgements and the punishments that she handed down.

  But what if the punishment was not a fine, but a condemnation to death by hanging? Then the situation might be very different. She thought of the huge responsibility of condemning a man to die, and of no possibility of ever remedying a mistake. The memory of that body, covered in tar, and hanging from the gibbet near to the eastern gate of the city made her feel slightly sick. She looked at Henry Bodkin. What did he think of this matter, she wondered?

  ‘Did you accept the office?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Lawyer Bodkin. He spoke slowly and with hesitation. ‘No, I didn’t. I suggested that he ask Lawyer Lynch. He’s the boy’s cousin.’

  And was also the cousin of his powerful father, James Lynch, the sovereign prince of Galway, the equivalent of the mighty Duke of Venice of whose powers over life and death her father had spoken in awed terms when he had returned from his pilgrimage to Rome many years ago. Mara thought the words but did not utter them. Her host looked drawn and almost ill. She remembered Jane commenting on his late arrival home at the end of the Shrove festivities and wondered whether he had drunk too much. Or was it just a natural reaction to the terrible news of the morning.

  ‘I felt that the whole thing was too hurried for me,’ he continued after a minute. ‘If I take on a case, I like to think about it, to uncover evidence if need be, to have conversations with my client. Apparently – I was not at the church myself – but Valentine Blake tells me that the trial has been fixed for twelve noon today.’

  ‘Are you good friends – you and Valentine Blake?’ asked Mara sympathetically, seeing the drawn face before her wince as he uttered the word ‘trial’.

  ‘Neighbours, rather, and we often share the hire of a ship. If I bring horses from Portugal, his salt acts as ballast in the hold and gives more room for the animals, or at least that’s how it used to be before these present problems in Portugal.’ He had shrugged at the idea of being a friend, but his eyes showed pain.

  ‘What will the verdict be? What can the verdict be?’ Mara amended her words as he shrugged slightly at her first question.

  ‘Guilty, or not guilty.’ After a minute, he added, ‘I haven’t known any other – and it is normally guilty.’

  ‘But there can be a recommendation for mercy?’

  ‘There has to be, of course!’ Lawyer Bodkin seemed pleased that she had brought up that possibility, though surely that should have occurred to him before since they had discussed this provision when talking about the case of Sheedy. She had even shown him the case from the time of Richard III.

  ‘I haven’t known it; but, of course, that would be the way to go about it.’ He must have sensed her surprise because he seemed to feel that he had to explain why he had not mentioned this possibility before, citing his tiredness and his shock at the news as excuses, and then finished up by saying, ‘I might just stroll down to see Thomas Lynch and put that idea in his head.’

  Mara declined a half-hearted invitation to go with him on the grounds of having some shopping to do before their return tomorrow. She thought she would see how her scholars were getting on. There were only about ten streets in the city of Galway; she would surely meet them sooner or later.

  ‘I’m sorry that Jane will not be able to go with you; she . . . she is unwell. This terrible news has upset her badly.’

  Mara was secretly relieved that there was no sign of her hostess. The last thing she wanted was to go around the streets of Galway with Jane twittering in her ear. However, she did wonder at this excessive sensibility. The women on the streets and in the church this morning were shocked; shocked but n
ot prostrated. Jane had commented severely on how Walter was spoiled by his mother and had not expressed any interest in young Carlos Gomez. Why was she so upset that she had to take to her bed? Jane Bodkin was not the sort of woman who would lightly neglect her guests.

  There was an enormous queue stretching right down Courthouse Lane. Mara walked the length of it, people drawing back to allow her to pass and eyeing her with curiosity. The news of the lady judge appeared to have spread through the whole city and everyone seemed to think that she was going into the courthouse. Even those who were already wedged into the doorway stood back to allow her to pass through.

  Mara declined their courtesy with a shake of the head and explained that she was looking for her scholars.

  ‘They’ve already come out, Mistress,’ said one man. ‘Look, the young fellow with the red hair and the other dark lad – they’re over there at the fish market.’

  Shane had been talking to a fishmonger, but had now joined Hugh who was conversing earnestly with a dark-skinned man wearing a pair of gold earrings and a flamboyant red cap. It was the Spaniard she had seen earlier following the body of Carlos to the church – probably the captain of the ship. A well-off man, this captain of the ship – the gold in those earrings was considerable and gold rings flashed from his fingers as he waved his hands in talk. This man was unlikely to be an ordinary sailor; he carried his wealth on his person, perhaps, but even so he was wealthy. Perhaps, like some sea captains, he had a share in the enterprises of his masters.

  Hugh was certainly growing in confidence on this visit to Galway. There had been a time when Mara had wondered whether she should break the news to his father, an ambitious silversmith, that Hugh was unlikely to pass the difficult examination to be a Brehon, but now she was glad that she had waited. The boy was improving so much as his confidence grew and she would keep him. Even if, like Fachtnan, he needed an extra year, then that was of no importance. He would make a good lawyer and possibly even a Brehon. He, more than Shane, who had always been clever and quick-witted, seemed to be leading this conversation with the ship’s captain, asking questions, obviously stumbling over their translation, but carrying it all with such an air of good-humoured charm that the man was friendly and responsive. He, in his turn, was laughing and apologizing for his bad English.

  Mara turned away hurriedly and melted back into the market-goers. She would hear about it later and in the meantime it would be a mistake to interrupt this conversation. She wandered back up through the streets. There was little air of festivity this morning. There seemed to be only one subject of conversation and that was the slaying of Carlos Gomez. There was a little knot of people at the four crossroads where Little Gate Street and Great Gate Street joined on to Skinner’s Street and High Middle Street.

  ‘He was drunk,’ said one woman. ‘People do terrible things when they are drunk.’

  ‘God help him; he didn’t have enough sense to go and hide. Just went and lay down inside the windmill not a hundred yards from the body. He was fast asleep when the constables found them. They had to shake him awake. That’s what I heard anyway. Nice young lad. Always polite and well mannered! Just drunk, I suppose!’

  ‘Drunk or not; he killed the Spaniard. It’s lucky for that young fellow that he is the mayor’s son,’ said one man grimly. He raised his voice. ‘I suppose he won’t hang, like my cousin’s son who was hanged because he killed a man in a fair fight.’

  His voice was so loud that several passers-by turned to look at him and a moment later Mara could see why he had spoken in such raised tones.

  James Lynch, the mayor, was walking up the street, probably coming from the gaol or from the courthouse. When he reached the four crossroads junction, he stopped by a large tower house at the corner of High Middle Street, took a large key from the purse on his belt, inserted it into the ornately studded door, went in and closed it behind him. His face looked the same as always and, although he could not have failed to hear the words, he betrayed no sign of emotion.

  But, thought Mara with a surge of pity, what about his wife Margaret, the adoring mother of the boy who now lay in that filthy gaol? Mara could hardly bear to think of how she must be suffering. She wished that there was something she could do. Was the poor woman sitting inside, weeping? Perhaps waiting for her hard-hearted husband to come home? Perhaps she was even now looking out from that window beside the framed panel which was dedicated to Henry VII, king of England when James Lynch first became Mayor of Galway. Mara stayed for a moment, her eyes on the strangely carved gargoyles that protruded from above the windows on the top storey of the house, and her mind busy with questions about what she could possibly achieve if she interfered in this matter.

  ‘Walk with me, Mara,’ said a voice from behind her. And then, a little impatiently, ‘I can’t keep calling you “my lady judge” and I can’t get my tongue around “Brehon”. Let me call you Mara. Please, Mara, please walk with me. You are a stranger here and you are not caught in the tangles of relationships.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Mara compassionately studied the face of Valentine Blake.

  ‘Bad!’ he said abruptly. ‘Will you come with me? I want to go to the King’s Head. That’s probably the last place that Walter visited before he went outside the city. I’ve been trying to trace him, to see if anyone was with him. And I’m looking for that Alfonso Mercandez, the Spaniard, the captain of the ship belonging to the Gomez family. I want to speak to him.’

  ‘Do you think that Mercandez might have something important to say? Do you think that Walter may not have committed the killing?’ asked Mara, but Valentine shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid that might be too much to hope for. But if he was there; if he could have followed the two lads; perhaps give evidence that Walter was badly provoked. There’s no doubt that both of them were drunk. Carlos was as bad as Walter. I heard that the innkeeper at the Unicorn down by the docks had to separate them. Catarina went home in disgust because of something that Carlos said to her in front of Walter; I met her in tears myself. But did they stay together when they left the city?’

  ‘Why the King’s Head, then?’ asked Mara.

  ‘Nearest inn to the gate leading out towards Lough Atalia,’ he said briefly. ‘I want to ask the landlord whether they were there last night.’

  He was silent for a moment as he fell into step with her and they paced the street together. Most people turned to stare at him and a few greeted him sympathetically. He was well known and well liked in the city, it appeared, and probably everyone knew of his close relationship to the boy who was being spoken of as a murderer.

  ‘I must see Alfonso Mercandez,’ he burst out after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Why has he to take the body back to Spain? Why has he to go on this very day? Other foreigners are buried in Galway – and Carlos has an aunt and two cousins living here. This matter should not be rushed. I can’t think why James is about to allow this to happen.’ Valentine Blake violently kicked a loose stone out of his way. He ran his fingers through his head of bushy curls, so like that of his unfortunate nephew, and stared at Mara with a look of bitter despair on his face.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he said passionately. ‘I’ve tried to talk to James, but I think that I just made things worse. He’s an obstinate devil. If he tries Walter today while this matter is fresh in everyone’s mind then there will be a stink if he is released and the boy will have to leave the town. What James should do, if he had any sense, is postpone the matter for a few weeks. Allow things to cool down. Philip Browne won’t make a fuss. It’s a terrible thing to say, I suppose, but this last night’s business will be a good piece of work for him. His son David will probably inherit the Gomez fortune now – he was in line for it before Carlos was born; I know that.’

  ‘Perhaps the mayor fears to be blamed if he is thought to be showing favour to his son,’ said Mara quietly. She could understand the feeling. Her own integrity and impartiality was very important to her. James Lynch, from wha
t she had seen of him, was an arrogant man, narrow-minded, obstinate, but a man who would uphold the laws as laid down by the English king, Henry VII, who had ratified his appointment.

  ‘Stupid man!’ exclaimed Valentine. ‘What about his wife? What about his family? What’s more important than that?’

  Justice, thought Mara, and then added the words ‘tempered by mercy’. Mayor Lynch had shown no mercy to Sheedy but had applied justice, as he saw it, though to her it was an ice-cold unfeeling justice, to an old man who had lost his wits and had stolen to keep himself alive. His son, of course, would be a different matter to him. Perhaps Valentine Blake was suffering unduly. Perhaps the mayor would not allow the name of Lynch to be disgraced.

  The King’s Head was a wonderfully comfortable place. It had an enormous fire that roared up the chimney; the wooden tables were solid and well polished; chairs, benches and stools were padded by colourful cushions. Not surprisingly it was full of people. The innkeeper and his wife were pouring wine from large jugs and pot boys were running to and from the tables carrying brimming goblets and foaming pots of beer.

  When they came in everyone was talking. They did not cease when Mara entered slightly ahead of Valentine, though they eyed her with a friendly curiosity. However, when her companion had hung up their cloaks and joined her, the loud voices changed to a murmur which had almost ceased by the time that they found themselves a small table by the window.

  ‘Some wine?’ asked Valentine.