Laws in Conflict (15 page)

‘All rise!’ bellowed the steward, and the crowd rose to their feet obediently. Mara did not rise. She had decided that a movement would only call attention to her.

The wretched prisoner crouched in his cage and sobbed loudly, while his father took his seat on the bishop’s throne and called for the submission by the lawyer speaking for the sovereign state of Galway.

‘My Lord,’ said Thomas Lynch. ‘This is a crime committed in a drunken rage. It offends against the laws of hospitality, as the victim was a young man from the country of Spain visiting cousins in the city of Galway. The sovereignty will bring evidence to show that the accused was seen fighting with the victim on many occasions during the evening that preceded the crime.’

He then sat down. Mara began to feel hope rising. It was a very mild introduction, better than she could have hoped for. The word ‘murder’ was not even mentioned. Her eyes sought Valentine Blake’s and saw him lift his head and gaze towards the altar area. There was a candle quite near to him and she thought she could read the dawning of hope in that uplifted face, which was so like that of his unfortunate nephew.

And then witnesses were called one by one. First came the constable who had found the body and after him a long procession of townspeople. Few had much to add to the fact that there were numerous fights between the two young men throughout the evening. One witness, the Grocer Joyce, added, ‘To be sure, your honour, young men are always fighting on Shrove. I broke up three fisticuffs myself. Master Walter meant no harm, I’d say.’

Not relevant, thought Mara, and looked at Lawyer Lynch, waiting for him to ask for the last remark to be stricken from the record, but he said nothing and it was left to the presiding judge, Mayor Lynch, himself, to say those words. His tone, when he spoke, was dry and indifferent and never once did he glance at the wretched boy crouching in the cage.

The Spanish captain was called next and he marched up and took his place firmly on the large box, kissed the Bible, swore to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, and then said loudly and dramatically that he had seen Walter pull out his knife and threaten Carlos Gomez with it. He had intervened and persuaded Walter to put the knife back into the pouch on his belt.

‘Did you not think to take the knife away from him,’ asked Lawyer Skerrett. This was his first intervention and he did it in a quavering unsure voice.

Alfonso Mercandez turned to him. ‘I was ordered to go away and I went. Señor Gomez was my master and I obeyed.’

Go on; ask him if Gomez had been fighting, had also pulled a knife. Mara willed the words to reach Lawyer Skerrett, but he sat down looking uncertain.

After this there was more of the same. The crowd shifted their feet and sighed. Although a few braziers had been lit, the church was icy. Even in her double-woven, fur-lined cloak Mara was cold and wished that the obliging steward had the facility to supply hot bricks as he had done at the courthouse.

But then the steward called for Mistress Catarina Browne and everyone grew still again.

Catarina took her place on the witness box with great composure, still clad in those over-large black garments of mourning. A tall, strong-looking girl, thought Mara. What a pity she had not taken the knives off those two boys instead of dissolving into tears and going home. Her own scholar, Fiona, though almost a foot smaller and far slighter, would have done that and then no harm other than two sore heads in the morning would have occurred.

Catarina’s evidence was colourless, no mention of the storm of tears that had sent her running up the street towards her home. She did mention meeting Lawyer Bodkin though, so the next witness to be called for was Henry and he came forward in his lawyer’s gown, looking trim, neat and self-contained, and told the court that he had followed the two young men out through the eastern gate and had tried to reconcile them.

‘And what was the result of your intervention?’ asked Lawyer Lynch in the bored tones with which he had conducted the whole of his interrogations.

‘Carlos Gomez turned back with me and re-entered the city,’ said Lawyer Bodkin.

Ask him about this! Mara silently implored Lawyer Skerrett. Put it into the jury’s mind to wonder why Carlos, once back inside the gates of the city, had returned later to the company of Walter. Did not that seem to show that they were not on such bad terms after all?
Indeed, Henry Bodkin himself looked expectantly at the lawyer for the defence as if he expected a question, but there was no movement from the old man, who seemed to be contemplating the toes of his well-polished boots, and Lawyer Bodkin, after a bow towards the enthroned judge, left the witness box and returned to his place.

And then Lawyer Lynch summed up – a transparent case whose details were known to most of the town, he said. The accused and the victim had quarrelled all evening and this quarrel had ended in tragedy. The evidence lay – and he pointed dramatically at the body in the coffin – in the fact that the accused man’s dagger was found stuck into the heart of the victim.

That dagger had been, thought Mara suddenly, rather carefully inserted for such a drunken man. She wished that she had access to some medical person, but her memory of the knife seemed to show that it had avoided the ribs and had been inserted below the breast bone. Chance perhaps, but perhaps not. If she were the lawyer for the defence she would bring that out. After all, Walter was not the only drunken and belligerent young man that night. Shrove, was, according to her host, famous for fights and once the combatants had been shepherded away from the city streets they were allowed to settle their differences in their own way.

Lawyer Skerrett’s summing up was even feebler than she had feared. Only in the last moment did he say, ‘I ask for a plea for mercy on the grounds of the young man’s youth and previous good character.’

‘He’s older than my fifteen-year-old cousin who was hanged for killing a man ten years older than himself in a fair fight,’ said a voice from the back of the church, and the judge frowned.

‘Silence in court,’ bellowed the steward.

‘Shut up,’ roared many voices, and only desisted when the judge threatened to clear the court of bystanders.

‘Has the defendant anything to say?’ queried the judge, looking languidly up at the great stained glass window behind his head.

The defence lawyer glanced hopefully at the cage but the wretched boy still wept noisily and said nothing. ‘No plea is entered, My Lord,’ he said eventually and sat down heavily.

‘Members of—’ began the judge.

Swiftly Mara got to her feet. What she was going to do had no legal precedent, no possible validity and its efficacy would depend on how many words she managed to get out before she was silenced. English, she thought, and a flow of words as fast as she could manage to utter with clarity.

‘Your worship and gentlemen of the jury,’ she said rapidly, ‘I do not know the custom of your courts, but if it may be permitted to an outsider like myself to speak . . . It is possible, your honour, that the accused does not know whether he is guilty or not. If he slept all night in a drunken stupor then only God alone will know whether at one stage of the night he woke and committed the murder, or whether some other person, maliciously inclined, killed Carlos Gomez and smeared the accused man with the bloody evidence from the wounds of the dead man. I submit, your worship,’ she went on even more rapidly, ‘that the only possible verdict is that of an acquittal or a retrial when more time for evidence gathering has been afforded.’

And that must be well under one minute, she thought triumphantly as she bowed respectfully to the judge, to the jury – who looked astonished and were obviously wondering who she was and where she had come from – and smiled sweetly into the bewildered face of the elderly Lawyer Skerrett.

‘The last intervention will be disregarded and not recorded in any court record,’ said Mayor James Lynch, rising and addressing the jury with more emphasis than usual. ‘Members of the jury, you also will disregard the words that you have just heard and will not, in any way, bear them in mind when you come to give your judgements.’

But they heard them all the same, thought Mara triumphantly. Whose influence would bear the most heavily on their judgement? However, she had given the judge a chance to save his son from a hasty condemnation and he could declare a mistrial and give a date for a new hearing.

However, her heart sank as she heard his summing up, heard the merciless phrases drop one by one from the judge’s lips: evidence of bad-feeling, of quarrels, striking and irrefutable evidence which was obtained at the scene of the murder.

‘I will enumerate that evidence,’ said James Lynch, his voice strongly ringing through the rafters of the church.

‘Firstly: The accused was found lying beside the dead man. Secondly: The accused was found to be covered with the blood of the dead man which gushed out during the fatal blow. No wound was found on the accused, so we know that the blood was the blood of the victim. Thirdly: The fatal wound was inflicted by the accused’s own dagger which has been identified by members of his family. Fourthly: You have heard evidence of enmity and bad-feeling between the accused and the victim.

‘Members of the jury, the accused had the means, the motive and the opportunity to perpetrate this heinous crime; how say you? Is he guilty or not guilty?’

No one spoke, no one moved. The jurymen looked at each and then looked at the floor beneath their feet. The boy in the cage ceased to sob.

‘Do you wish to retire to consider your verdict?’ The voice of the judge seemed to bear down heavily upon the jury. They shifted uneasily. Several cleared their throats. They leaned in closely to each other and began to converse in loud whispers. Mara was so near that she could see the expression on their faces. Not anger, not pity, more a sort of embarrassment. The foreman appeared to be arguing with some who shook their heads and then shrugged their shoulders. One man at the end of the row said something emphatically. Mara caught the word ‘trade’ and knew that the game was up. These men were traders, merchants, and whatever was bad for trade was bad for them. The son of a powerful and very rich Spanish trader had been murdered and a victim had to be offered to assuage the wrath of the bereaved family.

‘We are agreed, your worship,’ said the foreman, standing up and bowing respectfully.

‘And how say you; guilty or not guilty?’ enquired the judge impassively.

‘Guilty, your worship,’ said the foreman defensively, eyeing the judge carefully.

James Lynch showed no emotion. He leaned over, took the black cap from the box on the table beside him, placed it carefully on top of his greying hair and said solemnly, ‘Walter Lynch, you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of Carlos Gomez and I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. The sentence will take place in five days’ time in order to allow you to have due time to repent of your sins before you face your Maker. And may God have mercy on your soul.’

‘My Lord,’ shouted Mara at the top of her voice. ‘The law of Galway, I have heard it said, are the laws of Galway are the laws of the king and the emperor. One Roman law is relevant here.
Lex Valeria
in his book:
de Provocatione
, dating from the sixth century before Christ says, and I quote: “And by that law it is granted to every Roman citizen the legal right to appeal against a capital sentence, defined and confirmed the right of appeal.” St Paul, himself, My Lord, pleaded that law.’

For a moment she regretted having wasted time in giving the whole law and the reference, but her rigorous training in the law had been too strong for her.

‘Surely . . .’ she said with a break in her voice, ‘surely you will give the prisoner leave to appeal.’

‘Turn that woman out of the court,’ said Judge James Lynch, hardly raising his voice above it’s usual cool, calm cadences.

‘You’re a cold-hearted devil,’ roared out Valentine Blake, and his words seemed to be a signal to the rest of the church as most of those present leaped to their feet. ‘You cold-hearted devil! You should be driven out of this city.’

His words had no sooner ceased to echo around the church when the cry was taken up. First one or two – it was hard to know where the chant started – and then, here and there, and soon from every corner of the large church, more and more until the entire church joined in the chorus.

‘Out, out, out,’ they shouted and drummed their feet on the tiled floor. ‘Out, out, out.’
Dum, dum, dum
. The sound of the words and of the actions was like that of drums beating, and it continued, getting louder and louder. Almost the entire church took up the chant. Even respectable women were slapping their hands and drumming with their feet.

Lord Mayor James Lynch faced them dauntlessly, his eyes angry, his face pale, but with no sign of fear. The lawyers and the jurymen withdrew back towards the altar and then vanished through the door to the sacristy, but the judge did not stir.

‘Resign!’ shouted one voice, and this was taken up by others, but the majority kept to the simple and effective rhythmic chant of ‘Out, out, out.’

‘Soldiers, clear the court!’ called Mayor Lynch, and made a signal to the waiting troop. Mara did not hesitate. Her first duty now was to her scholars. Rapidly she went down the church until she reached them, glancing over towards the small chapel of the Blessed Sacrament on the north-western side of the church. It was empty and lit by just one tall candle, but it would provide a quick exit if the door happened to have been left open.

The noise was so great that she had to signal, but Moylan picked it up instantly and the others were alert and quick thinking. She saw them move, slide through and thanked God for their quick wits. They followed her instantly up the aisle and through the dark chapel, still smelling of incense from the last service there. The door was unlocked and they quickly passed through it.

‘Back to the Bodkin tower house immediately,’ she said as soon as they were outside. She was in danger; she knew. There had been a note of real menace in James Lynch’s voice. He would not hesitate to throw her in prison. And what about her scholars? Had she endangered them also?