Laura was holding him with a small smile, as only she could do. But he could see the concern, her tight brow, the flatness of her lips, the sloop of her eyes. She was worried. She should not be, he thought. He wasn’t. Probably because of Mackercher. He glanced up at the man, now standing, consulting with their throng of other lawyers, papers in hand. Yes, it was Mackercher’s presence, his irrevocable, unshakable strength. Mixed with the truth of the matter, the evidence, the history, it all formed a confidence in him that he could not otherwise explain. It would not be easy though—a point Mackercher had made time and time again. Richard had seventeen solicitors registered for his defense, including, most notably, the Solicitor General of Ireland himself. And he had a team of thirty-two barristers that had been combing the streets of Dublin, in fact the whole of Ireland, searching for witnesses, anyone who would testify that Joan Landy, “Juggy,” was James’s real mother. According to Mackercher, they had found over one hundred and fifty people to corroborate that story. James wondered how much of his money Richard had spent buying so many lies. Yet, what if they were not lying? Was it possible Mackercher was also his uncle? he wondered, studying the looming Scotsman. Would he be sitting between two uncles today, Mackercher on his left, Richard on his right? He shook his head. No, Mary Sheffield was his mother. He knew that. They had over one hundred witnesses to prove it. Though he had to admit to himself, a part wished he was related to Mackercher, that he had that man’s unique strength in his veins. Laura blushed slightly as James looked back at her again. She would see. This would all end well. He could feel it.
When the giant doors to the courtroom creaked again, James sat straight, glancing up expectantly. More of Richard’s attorneys were coming in, followed by the first group of spectators. James studied them. The room rumbled with indistinct voices, a few laughs, but most speaking in low serious tones. He felt alone and decided to sit with Laura until he was required to come forward. As he stood, the courtroom’s doors again opened, more spectators streaming. Then he saw Seán walking toward him, his coat’s left arm tied off at the elbow. They embraced awkwardly, James whispering, “Glad to see ye.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this, Seámus.”
Laura was standing. “Seán! So good of ya to come. Are ya well?”
“Well enough,” he smirked. “‘Tis grand t’ see ye again.” He kissed her hand.
“Do ye remember her in Kildare?” asked James. “Ye were a bit muzzy that week.”
“Remember her? Oh, Lord aye!” Seán turned. “‘Tis you I can’t seem to place.”
James chuckled. “When did ye arrive?”
“Yesterday. We came through Kildare. Just after ye’d left.”
“We?” asked Laura.
“Ach, aye, we. Where’s me manners!” Seán turned to a young, pretty lady behind him and said, “Laura, Seámus, I’d like ye to meet Miss Ann Conway. She was my nurse in New Ross. Ann, this is Miss Laura . . .uhmm.”
“Johansson,” said James.
“Ach, aye, Laura Johansson.”
“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” said Ann, duteously.
“Nice meeting ya as vell,” Laura replied with her usual resplendent smile.
“And this rogue here,” Seán went on, “is my good friend Seámus. Nay, rather….” He paused, glancing about, then raised his voice, “This is James Annesley, the Earl of Anglesea!”
James smiled self-consciously as all eyes focused on him. Ann curtsied, blushing a shade lighter than her red hair. “‘Tis an honor to meet ye, m’lord.”
“Ah, now,” James said, “none of that. I’m pleased to meet someone willing to put up with this rapscallion.” He grabbed Seán’s right shoulder.
“Shall ya sit with us?” asked Laura.
“We’d be honored,” said Seán.
*
Half an hour later, James was once again beside Mackercher at the plaintiff’s table. The courtroom was full of people, the gallery overflowing, the area in front of the bar teaming with a sea of black robes and long solicitor’s wigs. When an extra table was brought in for Richard’s seventeen solicitors, James’s six, including Mackercher, were clearly amused. Finally, the bailiff and other officers of the court filed in, and the bailiff ordered everyone to order and to stand. The courtroom emanated with squeaks and rustling as the hundreds of spectators came to their feet. An odd hush followed as the twelve gentlemen jurors entered, then stood before their seats in the long jury box beside James’s table. He watched them, each dressed in black, blue and burgundy finery, each noble and proud. Though he noticed a few glancing at him, others were clearly looking for Richard, who still had not arrived.
“There stands the rest of Ireland’s wealth,” whispered Mackercher.
James nodded, knowing Richard had obtained his due: a jury of equals. There were no surprises there. He had been briefed on their identities weeks ago. This one jury was rumored to be the wealthiest ever seated by an English court. They consisted of five earls, six marquis, and one baron—all members of the Irish and English Parliaments. And compiled, they represented almost the whole of Protestant Ireland, save Richard’s vast holdings. (Though most of their lives were spent on English soil.) Whether or not they would be sympathetic to James remained to be seen. A verdict for him would require devouring their own. Supposing they saw Richard that way, as brethren. Mackercher surmised it hinged on how many Richard had irreparably angered in Parliament—something impossible to ascertain with accuracy, rumors being as abundant as the people who birth them.
As the jurors remained standing, the bailiff announced the three honorable judges as they solemnly filed in, each under bulky crimson robes trimmed with white fur, a black sash around the waist, a long wig that draped shoulders and chest. All three faces were aged and pale, firmly impassive. The one who took the center seat, Lord Chief Baron, John Bowes, wore a thick gold cord around his neck, hanging low like a giant necklace. He was broad shouldered, with a long face around a Roman nose below deep-set eyes that carefully betrayed nothing.
Once the robes were all settled, the bailiff turned, bellowing, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Be it known in these parts and in this presence that the matter of James Annesley, Esquire versus His Lordship Richard Annesley, the right honorable Baron of Altham, the Earl of Anglesea—”
“Bailiff!” Justice Bowes commanded. “Leave off the formalities. For that is what we are here to determine.”
“M’lord.” The bailiff nodded, gathering himself again, then resumed, “Be it known in these parts and in this presence that the matter of James Annesley, Esquire versus…Richard Annesley, his lordship, is hereby heard before these honorable justices of His Majesty. Long live this court and long live the king!”
Justice Bowes motioned for all to sit and in a thunder they did. Cocking forward, he asked, “Sergeant Mackercher, are you ready?”
“Aye, my lord,” replied Mackercher, resuming his feet.
“And is this Mr. James Annesley?” The judge frowned.
“Aye, my lord.” Mackercher motioned for James to stand, to which he quickly complied.
Bowes turned to the mass of black robes against the other wall. “Prime Sergeant Malone, are you ready?”
“Aye, my lord.” Anthony Malone, Richard’s lead solicitor, was also standing.
“I see you have managed quite an army, but where is your client?” growled Bowes.
“My lord, I expect him momentarily.”
“We’ll start without him. Perhaps he does not take this matter seriously enough to dignify us for its commencement.”
Malone stammered, “My lord, I can assure you, Lord Anglesea most certainly does.”
“I will grant him one minute, but no more, Prime Sergeant!”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Prime?” James whispered to Mackercher, smirking. “We’re up against another Prime Sergeant? Maybe I should’ve hired me one of those.”
Mackercher grinned, shaking his head.
“Yar bloody-well stuck now,” he whispered back.
At that moment, the giant doors flew open and all eyes turned. In paraded four men dressed in gallant orange finery, followed by Richard, who high-stepped forward, shoes clicking, scarf in hand, chest first. The four stood aside and Richard kept moving. James smiled at the sight. His uncle was in grand fashion—bright purple coat, hat adorned with a plume of silver and green feathers, an enormous wig, a bright gold rapier. As Richard opened the barrister’s gate, Justice Bowes bellowed, “Halt!” Richard froze, glaring. “Remove your hat, sir,” ordered Bowes. Richard obeyed, slowly, giving the judge a long blink and short nod. “Are you a solicitor in this matter?”Bowes asked.
“My lord?” replied Richard.
“No man comes before that bar who is not a solicitor or a party in this case.”
“Most certainly, my lord. I am a party to this case.”
“State your name,” barked Bowes.
“My lord,” began Malone, “this gentleman is Lord Ang—”
“Silence.” Bowes raised a hand, then pointed at Richard. “I’m addressing the dandy.”
“Richard, Earl of Anglesea, m’lord. Not one to be pointed at, I assure you.”
“Aye? Well, we’ll see about that,” Bowes grumbled. “Step forward.”
Richard’s face reddened, his jaw set. He opened the gate and quickly walked to his table.
“Lord Anglesea,” Justice Bowes continued before Richard could sit, “you will not make a mockery of this court. If you want to parade in here with your hubris, like a peacock, and keep this court from commencing on time, I will have you arrested on charges of contempt. Do you understand?”
“My lord,” Richard retorted, fuming, “I had no such designs.”
“You did, indeed. And what’s more, I’ve been informed that your flock of black sheep there has been roaming this city, offering money to those who would agree to testify here. I will not tolerate such criminal impertinence.”
Malone blurted, “I must object, my lord. Lord Anglesea has done no such—”
Richard raised an imperious hand, silencing his attorney. “I’ll deal with this man,” he snarled, then marched toward the bench.
“Stand where you are!” one of the other judges commanded.
“Bailiff!” shouted Bowes. “Arrest this man upon the next step!”
James glanced to his side and saw Mackercher with an unabashed grin.
“This is an outrage!” shouted Richard. “To treat a fellow peer in this manner! I will have your appointment sir!”
“Lord Anglesea,” said Bowes, lowering his voice. “This court is not below you. If you wish to speak to me again, you must have your counsel make the request. If you speak to me directly, one more time, you will be expelled from this court.”
Richard was shaking with rage, glaring at Bowes, who returned it with equal fury. The entire room was silent. Grasping the hilt of his rapier, Richard spun back to his table.
“One more matter, Lord Anglesea. You shall leave your sword beyond the bar.”
Without looking at the judge, Richard jerked the sword free and threw it over the railing, where it clanged down the aisle of the gallery.
James glanced down at his own rapier, then looked at Mackercher, who motioned him to remove it. James slowly complied, laying in on the floor. Another attorney used his foot to slide it under the bar to Seán. When James looked back at Bowes, the judge was staring at him. “Sergeant Mackercher,” Bowes said quietly, “you may commence.”
“Thank ya, my lord,” Mackercher said, stepping forward as though nothing had just happened. He slowly approached the jury box. “If it may please my lords, gentlemen of the jury, I am Daniel Mackercher, counsel for the claimant, Mr. James Annesley, the only son and heir of Arthur, the late Fourth Baron of Altham and Sixth Earl of Anglesea, deceased, otherwise to be titled, the Right Honorable James, Eighth Earl of Anglesea. Eighth, as his uncle, the defendant in this case, deviously stole the position of Seventh. The issue to be tried before ya is one of grand consequence—whether or not Mr. Annesley is the child of Mary Sheffield, the wife of that same late Arthur. It will be claimed by the defense that Arthur never had a son by Mary, Lady Anglesea, but rather that James Annesley is the son of a woman by the name of Joan Landy, now deceased. Though it will no doubt be proffered to ya that Ms. Landy was my sister, let me assure ya that such fact is of no consequence.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “In order that I may convince ya of the truth in this matter, I will prove to ya gentlemen that Mary, Lady Anglesea did indeed undergo a pregnancy, that she gave birth to a son, and that the plaintiff before ya is that very son.” After another brief pause, he wet his lips and continued. “Numerous witnesses will be brought before ya who will relate their account of that pregnancy and birth, but it has been my experience that memories from that many years ago, twenty-eight years ago, can often be quite feeble indeed.” Mackercher turned, facing Richard. “Unless, of course, they are financially encouraged to remember details not otherwise known.” He returned his gaze to the jurors. “Most of the good people I will bring before ya will tell ya how Arthur treated James, how James was publicly regarded as his legal son and rightful heir. And a few will speak of the defendant, and how he treated the plaintiff. I am confident that once the plaintiff has brought his full case before ya, ya will have learned the truth—that which the defendant, Richard Annesley, knows full well. For as ya will see, had that evil, greedy man….” He gave a long purposeful point at Richard. “Had he not known in his black heart that the plaintiff was truly the rightful Earl of Anglesea, he would never have gone to such detestable lengths to destroy him.” Again Mackercher paused, then turned back to the jury. “I thank ya for yar wisdom in this matter,” he concluded, then returned to his chair.
“Prime Sergeant Malone?” Justice Bowes prompted.
“May it please my lords,” Malone responded, approaching the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of great importance. Many of you know the defendant, Richard Annesley, Earl of Anglesea, and you know the pride he maintains for his family’s good name and lasting honor. He takes this matter quite seriously, indeed.” He paused to glance at Justice Bowes, who was staring back implacably. Malone quickly resumed, “Quite seriously. As each of you does, as well. The facts will be presented and proven to you, clear and simple. The plaintiff is a bastard, an imposter, a desperate young man determined to steal what never belonged to him by birthright.” He clasped his hands together and began pacing the length of the jury box. “Gentlemen, I bid you, think of yourselves as Isaac, who was so easily deceived because of his blindness, fooled into giving his blessing to the deceiver.” Malone walked to the front of James’s table and stood directly before him. “Here is Jacob, the deceiver, coming before you with his false lambskin and baseless offering.” He took a step sideways, positioning himself in front of Mackercher. “And here…here is the form of Rebecca, the one who urged Jacob to deceive. It was this man’s sister who gave birth to James Annesley.” He pivoted back to face the jury. “Do you not find it queer that the woman’s own brother is here to argue this case, no doubt fishing for a piece of the fortune? ‘Tis obvious, gentlemen.” Malone put both hands on the railing of the jury box and leaned toward the men. When he continued, he spoke so softly that James had to strain to hear him. “When I sit down the deception will begin,” he said. “A parade of people will come before you. I ask you to see them as they are, the false hair (he waited for the few chuckles) of Esau, and the vile food which you will be asked to eat. I beseech you, use your eyes gentlemen. You have them. I implore you, do not make Isaac’s mistake. Do not be deceived. Do not be the instruments for this black thievery.” As Malone sat down, James watched anxiously, impressed yet chafed by what seemed a clever opening.
“Sergeant Mackercher, you may call your first witness.”
Mackercher stood. “The plaintiff calls Mr. Thomas Rolph.”
A pew creaked behind the
m, and James looked back to see an old man grappling to stand. A young woman helped him, then led him to the aisle. As Rolph’s eyes met James’s, James gave him an appreciative nod. Rolph had been the butler at Dunmain House during James’s childhood there, and though James had no particularly warm memories of him, Rolph had been a pleasure to visit with during trial preparation. The elderly man’s memory was strong and he had been useful in sorting through the countless dates and disparate witnesses. After shuffling forward, past the bar, he finally reached the witness box where a court officer was waiting.
“Raise yer right hand, sir, placing the other firmly on the Holy Bible,” the officer ordered. Rolph did, his wrinkled, spotted hands shaking. “Do ye swear, sir, on this Holy Bible and before this court, and upon yer oath to King George the Second, that the testimony ye shall give unto this court this day shall be the truth and nothing other than the truth, so help ye God?”
“Aye. I do,” Rolph muttered, then took the seat.
Mackercher smiled warmly. “Morning, sir. Yar name’s Thomas Rolph, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“Tell us, sir, how ya came to be acquainted with Arthur, the late Earl of Anglesea.”
Fortunate Son Page 35
