Cautiously, Mara pushed open the casement window between the stone mullions – the diamond-shaped panes of glass were thick and full of bubbles. It was difficult to see properly through them.
Just as she did so a woman wearing an ornate purple hood had joined a group standing directly in front of Bodkin’s tower house. Her voice floated clearly up in the still, frosty air.
‘What are ye all—’ she began her question in a loud, cheerful voice, but then one of the other women in the group seized her wrist and said something into her ear, then stood back to see the effect of her words.
‘Whaat? Murdered?’ shrieked the woman in the purple hood, and the others hushed her instantly. One of them glanced up, saw Mara at the window and they all moved rapidly down the street. Mara closed the window and looked at Fiona.
‘Murder?’ she queried.
Fiona nodded. ‘That’s what she said.’ Her voice was airy and unconcerned. ‘Let’s hope that it was that mayor, James Lynch,’ she said lightly. ‘I’d have no sympathy for him. Poor old Sheedy. The jury were going to recommend mercy, but he shut them up. If they hang Sheedy, then, in my mind, James Lynch will be guilty of murder, and it’s no good you talking about a conflict of laws, Brehon. Do you remember what Cicero said about all law being based on natural law, lex naturalis, and that the laws of men must be derived from the laws of God? Well, God would not condemn to death a poor old man whose wits are wandering for the theft of a pie.’
‘I’m glad you know your Cicero so well, but while we are inside the city walls of Galway be careful to voice thoughts like that just to me. I hope that there was no talk about this matter when you were out last night.’
‘Fachtnan shut Aidan up and we all took the hint,’ said Fiona with a shrug. ‘It would be rather exciting if the mayor were murdered, though, wouldn’t it, Brehon?’ she added as Mara went out of the room.
Mara went down the winding stone staircase with a smile. Fiona was irrepressible. Totally spoilt by her father; Robert MacBetha had cheerfully acknowledged when he had brought her to Mara’s law school on the Burren that, ‘You’ll get more work out of her than I’m managing to do these days.’ Robert and Mara were the same age and had worked side by side at her father’s law school, competing with each other, neither allowing the other to gain too much of an advantage. Unfortunately there was no one to compete properly with Fiona, these days. If only she had come when Enda, Mara’s star pupil, had been there. His family had money troubles and Enda had left the law school once he had gained the minimum law qualification and begun to practise as a lawyer in the kingdom of Thomond. Moylan was sharp and quick-witted but did not have Fiona’s brains, and Fachtnan, though intelligent and hard-working, had great memory problems.
But then she forgot about Fiona as she went into the dining hall. Henry Bodkin and his sister Jane were there and judging by his cloak and the flush on his cheeks from the cold air, he had just come in from the street. Indeed, she had noticed an icy draught from an imperfectly closed front door as she came down the stairs.
Henry Bodkin had been speaking quietly, but Jane reacted just as the women in the street had done. She had gasped, clapped her hand to her mouth, opened her eyes very widely and had gulped out, ‘Murdered!’
The word hung in the air for a moment and then the lawyer nodded; nodded slowly and with a heavy air of regret about him.
Mara hesitated at the door. This was, she reminded herself, none of her business. If it were back in the kingdom of the Burren that this word had been uttered, she would immediately have had to get to work, going herself to see the body, summoning witnesses, gathering evidence with the aid of her young scholars, putting her brains to work and never ceasing her efforts until the killer was brought before the court beside the ancient dolmen of Poulnabrone.
However, a little curiosity was permissible, she decided, and now was the time to ask before the scholars arrived downstairs.
‘You seem worried,’ she ventured, looking from one to the other.
Jane Bodkin turned a shocked face towards her. Her large, short-sighted eyes filled with tears.
‘His poor mother,’ she gulped and went out of the room, pulling out a linen handkerchief from the large pocket that hung from her waist.
Mara turned enquiring eyes on her host. Poor mother – not poor wife, nor, poor children . . .
‘There’s been a murder,’ he said, ‘or rather –’ he corrected himself – ‘a killing. A terrible ending to last night’s festivities!’ He broke off as loud shouts came from outside the half-closed front door.
‘Excuse me,’ he said and made rapidly for the front door. Mara followed him, snatching her own cloak from the row of hooks in the entrance hall. As she did so, there was a clatter of feet on the stairs and the six scholars, led by Fiona came running down into the hallway. They too would have been watching from the window and they instantly took their own cloaks, and followed her out into the street.
Lombard Street was now almost empty. The few people who were still there were hurrying towards Gaol Street. There was a noise in the distance, a rhythmic thudding, something that Mara could not identify instantly. At first she thought it might be horses, but this sound was more muted. And then there was another sound that rose, high and clear, above the mutters from the crowd.
‘Left turn!’ yelled a voice and then, ‘Eyes right!’
‘Soldiers!’ breathed Moylan. He and Aidan pushed in front of Mara and began to make their way through the crowd. Mara followed in their footsteps, feeling slightly apologetic as she saw people on the pavement step out into the road in order to allow them to pass.
By the time that they reached Gaol Street itself, the crowd was huge. A few constables were doing their best to confine the people to the pavement, but they kept spilling back out again on to the road. Mara hesitated, wondering whether she should call the boys back. But once again, the strangeness of their clothes caused people to turn around and stare and this allowed the two boys to struggle to the front and the others to follow them. And then they could see everything.
The soldiers were in two groups, very smart in white coats with a green stripe on the sleeves. They marched precisely and rhythmically in front of one man, a man not in uniform, but wearing the sweeping fur-trimmed gown of office with a gold chain around his neck and a flat black cap on his head. The Mayor of Galway, James Lynch, had just come from his house on the corner of two streets. He held his head high and looked neither to right nor left, but kept his eyes fixed straight in front of them and his feet moving to the pace of the soldiers.
And behind him came four soldiers dragging a wretched creature, bareheaded and without a cloak, his hose soaked in mud and bearing some ominous dark red stains across what had once been a white shirt, his matted hair fell in dank locks across his face, but that was not enough to hide his identity from the crowd and a loud gasp went up.
And a name was sent from mouth to mouth.
The prisoner was Walter Lynch, only son of the lord mayor of the city of Galway.
For a moment, Mara thought that there must be some mistake. The change between this poor creature and the tall young man that she had seen yesterday was enormous. He had been so vibrant then, so full of life, gleaming like polished copper, she had thought at the time. Now the curly chestnut-coloured hair was dull and matted; the jaunty red cap with a kingfisher’s feather stuck into it had been lost. The bright alert face was puffy and white and the red jerkin and crisp white shirt were smudged with bloodstains.
Mara watched in horror as the soldiers turned down towards the prison. A sharp command was given; the door was pulled open by the gaoler. He looked sleepy and unkempt, but even from a distance Mara could see how he straightened himself at the sight of the lord mayor and the troop of soldiers. She was too far away to hear what was said, though the crowd stood so still and soundless that the noise of seagulls overhead suddenly seemed almost unbearably intrusive.
The mayor appeared to be speaking, giving orders;
looking straight at the gaoler and then at the sergeant-in-command. Never once did he look at the wretched face of his only son.
And then he stood back, waved an imperative arm and the boy was dragged into the prison. The sergeant and two men went with him and returned a few minutes later.
The troop turned and marched back, making a smart left turn when they reached Lombard Street.
‘They’ll leave him in there for a day or two, and then he’ll be released,’ said a voice from behind Mara. It was, she saw from the corner of her eye, the woman in the ornate purple hood. ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The mayor’s own son!’
‘What happened?’ asked Mara, turning around in a friendly fashion. ‘We’re strangers here,’ she added apologetically.
‘God bless you; so you are.’ The woman beamed at her. ‘I’m one of the Blakes, myself; one of the poor relations, you could say, but that’s a nice boy and it was just one of those unfortunate things. I don’t suppose that he meant to kill him, you know. Too much drink taken; that was the problem.’
‘It was a fight, do you think?’ asked Mara easily. She was beginning to guess.
‘They’re bringing the body to St Nicholas’s Church,’ said the woman, beginning to shove her way to the left in order to follow the soldiers into Lombard Street.
‘We’ll go in front, Mistress Blake, and make way for you,’ said Moylan gallantly. ‘Come on, Aidan.’
‘Nice, well-mannered boys,’ said her new friend. ‘They were at The King’s Head Inn last night – you know, Stephen Lynch’s place. Everybody praised their behaviour and how they did not drink too much. I’m Mistress Athy, really,’ she added. ‘I married an Athy, but you know what they say, “once a Blake; always a Blake”. Lord love you, the city is full of Blakes.’
‘Well, I’m glad you think my boys are well behaved,’ said Mara, doing her best to lead back to the subject of young Walter Lynch. ‘Of course, like all boys, they are better behaved if they don’t drink too much . . .’
‘Well, you’re right about that; that’s just it; that’s what happened last night – too much to drink. She’s a cousin of mine, Margaret, the lad’s mother, but she gave him too much money. Ruined, spoilt, he was. Couldn’t deny him anything!’ She raised her voice. ‘Into Market Street, lads, that’s where they are bringing the body.’
There was no need for her to say that. The troops had already marched into Market Street and the crowds had followed. At a word from the sergeant, the soldiers formed two lines on the upper part of the street, leaving a narrow passageway between them and pushing back the crowd against the doorways opposite to the church. At the gate to the church, the bishop stood, his vestments fluttering in the slight breeze, and after a moment’s hesitation the mayor crossed over and stood beside him.
‘Here it comes,’ hissed Mistress Athy. Her ears were sharp and had caught the first sound of marching feet. A second later that was drowned out as the church bell began to toll. Mara counted the strokes and saw that everyone around almost held their breath as they did likewise. Some used fingers to help them in the sum, but all came to the same conclusion.
‘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?
Eight
Críth Gablach
(Ranks in Society)
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.
The 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 h
ere 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.
Laws in Conflict Page 9