Laws in Conflict (12 page)

‘Twenty years old, God have mercy on his soul!’ sighed Mistress Athy. ‘They found him lying dead on the ground just outside the windmill above Lough Atalia, you know. And –’ she hesitated, looked around, and then continued in a sibilant whisper – ‘they do say that young Walter Lynch was only a few yards away, lying dead drunk on some sacks inside the windmill.’

And Walter had been smeared with blood, thought Mara. What an end to that night of merriment.

A murmur rose up from the crowd. A new detachment of soldiers had joined the first group – all but four of them, who marched at the back of the regiment.

And this four carried a plain stretcher – no coffin.

The body lay completely exposed on the stretcher. There was no covering over the face that was still contorted in its death agony, and no covering over the body – just the clothes in which he had died, soaked in blood and bearing traces of dark mud.

And from the centre of the chest protruded a dagger.

The blade was buried deep, but the ebony and embossed silver of its hilt gleamed in the pale sunshine of this February morning.

Mara drew in a deep breath and from all around her she heard the echoing of its sound as a sigh ran though the crowd. It was Walter Lynch’s dagger and it was buried deep in the chest of the Spanish boy, Carlos Gomez.

‘The captain of the Gomez ship wants to take him straight back to Spain,’ whispered Mistress Athy. ‘The carpenters and smiths are hard at work making a coffin lined with lead so that the body can be taken away on the evening’s tide.’

The body was followed by the captain of the ship, some of the sailors and by four other mourners. Isabelle Browne, the dead boy’s aunt, was almost prostrated by grief, clinging to her husband Philip’s arm and weeping profusely, her dark-skinned face red and blotched with tears. Behind them came their children Catarina and David.

Catarina, unlike her mother, was not weeping. She was dressed in deepest black – the robe hung loosely on her – probably borrowed from her mother – but Catarina wore it with dignity, her shoulders square and her head held high. Her black hair was covered by a black lace Spanish veil and she had drawn one edge down over her forehead and eyes. She walked steadily, the tips of her fingers just touching her brother David’s arm. She did not look to right or left until she came to a standstill behind her parents as the bishop offered his condolences to the relations of the slain boy.

It was only after Philip and Isabelle had moved forward to follow the body into the church that she spoke. She dropped her hand from her brother’s sleeve and turned to face the two men, the bishop, and the lord mayor who had stood stony-faced, erect and silent during the condolences.

‘If there is any justice in this city of Galway, then the man who did this should be hanged,’ she said, her voice ringing against the stone building beyond and her words crystal clear to the shocked crowd.

A murmur rose up as she mounted the steps to the church. Was it a murmur of sympathy, of understanding, of pity for a beautiful young girl?

Or was it, wondered Mara, the forerunner of a blood lust which has gripped crowds from time immemorial?

All cases of killing must be thoroughly investigated by the Brehon. Only when those investigations are complete may the trial be held.

In the case of a murder, if the fine administered by a qualified judge is not paid within a period of two months by the guilty person or by the clan then the victim’s kinsmen are permitted to carry out a blood-feud to exact vengeance on behalf of the dead man.

T
he church service – the prayers for the dead – had just finished when James Lynch left his place beside the pulpit. He had stood there very quietly for the whole service, never moving, never hanging his head or averting his gaze.

Now, without a word to the bishop, he climbed the pulpit steps and faced the congregation in the packed church. When he spoke his voice was low, though pitched to reach the back of the church and showed no emotion

‘In view of the wish expressed by the relations, friends and servants of the dead man to send the body back to the unfortunate parents in Spain as soon as possible; a journey which will take at least two weeks and perhaps longer if winds and tides are not favourable,’ he said in an even, remote tone of voice, and paused slightly before resuming. ‘Bearing in mind all of these considerations I give notice here that the trial of the man accused of this murder will take place today at twelve noon. The proclamation will be cried at all street corners and I hereby order any witnesses with relevant testimony to present themselves here at that hour.’ He paused and then said drily, ‘As many of the public as can be accommodated will be admitted to the trial and in order that this may be possible and that justice may be seen to be done, my lord bishop has given permission for the trial to be held here in the church of St Nicholas of Myra.’

There was a sudden movement; a word bitten back, a hand upraised and a man stepped from behind the holy water stoop. For a moment Mara hardly recognized him and then saw that it was Valentine Blake. The smile, the carefree air, the easy good-natured pleasant face that he normally presented to the world was gone. This man was blazing with anger.

‘Your worship,’ he called. ‘Is it fair to rush the course of justice in order to accommodate a man who wants to sail today? The young visitor from Spain, so unfortunately slain last night, can and should be buried here in Galway, where his grave will be respectfully tended and his parents welcomed to our city if they wish to visit. In this way time can be given to the investigation into the killing.’

The silence was so intense after these words that it seemed as though the whole church held its breath and waited for the answer.

But there was none. James Lynch gave his bailiff one glance, then stepped down the steps to the pulpit and marched straight down the middle aisle of the large church and through the western door.

Slowly and hesitantly, one by one, some people came up, touching the stretcher reverently and then crossing themselves, muttering a prayer as they did so.

Mara followed them, slipping out into the aisle as unobtrusively as she could manage, while making a sign to the scholars to remain in their places.

It’s none of my business, she told herself once more, but still she could not subdue her instinct to know all. The corpse, she thought, when she reached the top of the queue was a piteous sight, the front of the body soaked in blood and the back, as far as she could see, caked in mud and grass. No one had attempted to wash or to compose the dead young man. Even pieces of gravel still remained in the sticky blood at the back of his head.

When her turn came she reached out and touched the dead hand that was flung to one side of the stretcher. She kept her own hand in position for a moment while she uttered a Gaelic prayer in a penetrating murmur. Let the others in the queue think that holding a hand was a native Gaelic custom, she thought, as her mind registered the impressions. The face was set in contorted lines of pain. Carlos had been conscious of being stabbed. He had seen his killer, she thought, looking into the sightless eyes. The hand was as stiff as a piece of stone.
Rigor mortis
had set in strongly despite the cold night. Carefully, she examined the dagger and the angle that it had entered the chest. Carlos Gomez had been dead for about twelve hours, she reckoned. The fingers were locked stiffly into position.

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.’