Fortunate Son (27 page)

Their lips parted slightly as she took a breath, mouthing into him, “I love ya so, James.”

He wiped the tear that slipped over her cheek. “I'll be out this horrible place by tomorrow morning,” he said awkwardly. Then he beamed, thinking past the immediate moment. “We'll go to Ireland together! Seán will be there and—”

“Aya, my love.” She glanced away, a soft frown forming.

“I scarcely believe my eyes,” he said, ignoring her expression. “I'm afraid they're deceiving me. Do tell me this is not some dream. That ye'll not vanish when I awake.”

“Shh!” She touched his lips. “Don't say such things. I'm here. I'll never leave ya. Never. Never let ye go from me, ever again. Not in a thousand years.”

James kissed the rosy plum of her cheeks, tasting her tears. “I love ye, sweet girl.”

“I promised ya last autumn. I'm yars.” Her eyes were shimmering blue. “I was going mad without ya. I simply
had
to come. Ya aren't angry, are ya?”

“How could I be?” he exclaimed. “When did ye arrive?”

“We came through Bristol, at least a fortnight ago. I searched for ya everywhere. I was afraid I might not ever…. But, then I read about the shooting and learned ya were here. Captain Blackwell brought us immediately.” She shook her head slowly. “My dear James, this matter, the thing that happened, with Fynn…. It is all dreadful and wrong.”

“Aye, ‘twas a terrible accident. I never—”

“I know,” she interjected. “I cannot imagine how ya must feel.” They heard thunder rolling, and across the walled courtyard a breeze whipped up, sweetening the air.

“With Mr. Mackercher's help, and you here, all will be fine. Ye met him, Mr. Mackercher?” James asked, then caught himself. “Of course ye have.”

“Aya. This morning. He had just arrived from Dublin. He put my aunt and I up in the Bartle House Inn. Then he told me about….” Her voice faded. “He seems a kind man.”

“He is, indeed. And London is a dangerous place. I'm glad he'll be looking out for ye, till I'm released.” James glanced at the iron staircase, half-expecting Mackercher to be standing there. He wasn't. The courtyard grew gray as thick clouds settled above. “I wonder if he's found Seán. I forgot t' ask if—”

“Have ya spoken to Seán since then…since that day?” Laura stood, looking away.

James got to his feet. “Nay, but I must. He—”

“James. I….” Her voice faltered. “I have news of Seán. Mr. Mackercher told me.”

He walked to her, then gently turned her to face him. “What is it, Laura?”

“Did ya need Seán to be here, in London, for yar trial?”

“Aye! He is the only witness. He can attest on my behalf.” James's voice dropped, seeing her blank expression. “Will he not come?” Laura grasped his hands in hers. “Is he not well?” he continued. “What happened, Laura?”

“I know ya're very close to him. Mr. Mackercher said much. And from what ya said in Virginia, and yar letters and all….” Laura paused, sniffing.

He put his arms around her. “Let Mackercher bring this news. There's no need for—”

“Nay. I asked to tell ya.” She was faintly shaking in his arms. She glanced up, then quickly away, whispering, “Seán is here in London, James.”

“He is?” He released her slightly. “Where?”

“The White Horse Inn.”

“That's good.” He waited but nothing came. “Is it not good?”

“He's there as a guest of yar uncle.”

“What?”

“He will testify against ya.”

“Nay, ye heard it wrong. Not Seán. He wouldn't do that.”

“He'll say ya killed Fynn on purpose.” She crumpled to the bench and leaned forward, covering her face with her hands. “They'll hang ya, James. Oh God, they will.”

James felt his blood chill, his shoulders slumping forward. Then he erupted, pacing about. “Jaysus! This can't be! He's under Richard's demonic spell, he is. I don't believe this!”

“I could hardly bear to tell ya.”

He returned to the bench, growling, “Why'd Mackercher leave this to ye, for ye—”

“Nay,” she said, crying, “I insisted. I—”

“I'm sorry, James,” said Mackercher, suddenly near. “She can be most persuasive.”

She dabbed at her vibrant eyes. “I was here. I wanted to help. I wanted to be the one to tell ya.”

“I could hardly believe it as well,” Mackercher whispered. “But let me deal with Seán.”

“Mr. Mackercher!” James snapped, spinning to him squarely. Then stopped. He blinked, relaxing his glare. “Thank ye for tending to Laura. I wish ye'd told me this news, not her, but I understand. As for Seán….” He blew out a deep breath. “No harm should come to him.”

The rain began in fat plops, forcing the three of them under a walkway—Laura to a bench, James and Mackercher standing. James leaned against a column, staring at the flagstone splatters. He could see himself and Seán, standing over Fynn's body as sheets of gray rain stung their faces, soaking the ground with Fynn's blood. “How could Seán ever fathom such an idea?” he mumbled. “How could he? That I would do such a thing, deliberately?”

“Madness,” offered Mackercher.

“Richard,” fumed James. “May God damn that man. He's the devil incarnate.” Rage gurgled up, bringing another image: He was standing, holding a bloody sword, watching Richard's body spew hot blood into rain puddles. The image disappeared. It didn't matter. He would never get that opportunity, to exact such final revenge. Laura was right. With Seán's testimony, and no conflicting witness, he would be convicted of murder. He would hang at Tyburn before the week ended. He closed his eyes to the rain. “Damn ye, Seán,” he muttered aloud. “We were as brothers.”

It is said fear makes a man sharp, but James's fear left him immobilized, thick, murky with dread. Behind him, the Old Bailey's gallery was crowded. Though Mackercher had counseled otherwise, James kept glancing back into that swarm of callous faces. From their scrutinizing eyes and pointing fingers, he knew whom they had come to see. Though the judge was late and the trial was yet to begin, James felt it well underway. These people neither knew him nor cared about him. They were here for the spectacle alone, regardless of the outcome. He could hear their drums rolling. Each no doubt hoped he would hang, hoping they could picnic on Tyburn Hill watching him swing; watching the man who claimed to be noble, ignobly piss himself and die. He wished they would go away, but he knew they would not—these kind of people never go away. He took a deep breath and sighed loudly, leaning back in his heavy oak chair, listening to it creak against his weight. How many had sat in this very chair and heard their execution proclaimed? The last chair in which they would ever sit. Cold fear jolted him, his stomach cramping, as if he had just swallowed a brick of ice. As if he were freezing to death from the inside out. Nothing could warm him. Even his heart seemed to shiver. He moved, stretching against his collar. Mackercher had purchased these clothes, insisting James dress as the Earl of his claims. Now his best clothes might well be his last clothes, here in his last chair—an expensive deep lavender suit with a silk cloak, silver buckles and a smooth white wig. When the wig maker fitted him, James smirked, asking who would catch it when the executioner threw it off. No one laughed. He looked again at the faces behind him, their snares still keeping beat. A memory filled his mind: He was in a little school near Dunmain, age nine, the Tiarna Óige dressed in pompous finery, assigned to a creaky oak chair by the wall, being stared at, mocked by the others. Then he saw himself at his father's funeral—cat eyes staring from a black sea, studying him, as if they knew then that this day would come. As if they knew his fate was sealed, from that moment on, there in the muddy yard of Christ Church.

“Come now,” Mackercher whispered. “Leave them be.”

James snorted in response, feeling Mackercher's eyes on him.

“They've come to gawk,” said Mackercher. “They mean nothing.” His long white solicitor's wig draped his black silk robe, and as he leaned near, the robe rustled, and the ends of the wig fell across James's shoulder, giving the appearance that James's wig was longer and curlier on that side. “Ya're in the newspapers,” he continued. “'Tis all. These people have nothing better to do.”

James gave a nod, then turned, looking into Laura's compassionate eyes. She was directly behind him, yet too far away for them to speak. She held him with a gentle smile. He tried to return it, but knew his was too meek to be believed. He was almost glad that she was not beside him, that they couldn't talk. She should not hear the fear in his voice. Yet at least she was there, comforting him, ten feet away. He closed his eyes and inhaled. How blessed he was. That she loved him so completely. Yet how difficult it must be for her. He turned and faced forward again, his eyes to the empty, open expanse of worn floor planks running from the accused's table to the judge's bench. Now that Seán had resolved against him, James decided it was a sign from God that Laura had arrived so fortuitously. But what kind of sign? A sign of hope—an angel heralding imminent victory? Or was she sent as a last comfort, a last earthly consolance, last beauty, last love, before his neck snapped, dispatching him to the feet of God? Perhaps God didn't have a hand in it either way. Perhaps it was nothing more than ponderous fate.

Deep voices drew his attention to the right side of the courtroom. There stood a man dressed similarly to Mackercher: long solicitor's wig, black silk robe. Except this man's robe had a scarlet trim. And something else was different—he was priggish, leaning on the barrister's bar as if he owned it, speaking to a pair of young lawyers who were wearing shorter wigs, no scarlet trims. Both were standing on the other side of the barrister's bar. Clearly not touching it. Almost respectfully so. No, fearfully. They appeared about James's age, perhaps a bit younger. They seemed transfixed, listening to the words of the elder solicitor as if each syllable mattered, as if they were hearing the secrets of the universe, the uttering of eternal truths, the voice of God. They were scared, James thought. Perhaps more than him. He wondered why. Yet he felt neither envy nor pity. He felt nothing more than slight contempt. The man they were worshiping had been hired to kill him, to see him unjustly hanged. Just as they clearly believed, they could be no better than that man. They too were aspiring murderers.

Mackercher leaned in. “That's John Giffard. The prosecuting solicitor.”

“Why the red trim?”

“He's a member of the Lincoln Inn, an order of King's solicitors. A Prime Sergeant Solicitor of the King's Bench. That's all. Of no weight here, I can assure ya.”

“What is that, that title?”

“Nothing important to us,” muttered Mackercher.

James could hear the dismissive tone. “What does it mean?”

Mackercher smiled thinly. “He can represent matters on behalf of the King.”

“Ye must be joking!” James strained to keep his voice muffled.

“It has no effect on us here, except….”

“Except what?”

“Richard undoubtedly paid a fortune for a Prime Sergeant to prosecute this matter.”

“‘Twas my fortune he paid,” James growled. “Using my money t' see me hanged.”

“Aye, James,” Mackercher sighed. “All we can do is make certain the judge learns
who
hired that shylock. I'll try to get it out of Seán.”

James considered the imposing solicitor a moment more. Just then the man turned to James and smiled, as if he had known all along that James was talking about him. James frowned, averting his gaze. “What was his name?” he asked quietly.

“John Giffard.”

“Ye ever tried a matter against him?”

“Nay.” Mackercher gave a slight shrug, as if to say it didn't matter.

“Nay?” James looked alarmed.

Mackercher grinned. “It doesn't mean he can't be given a good Scottish arse-whippin'.”

James nodded slowly, unconvinced, then whispered, “Good.”

Mackercher sat quietly for a moment, then turned around, scanning the crowd. “Captain Bailyn is here,” he muttered, turning back.

“Are you surprised?”

“Not a'toll. He's here for Richard.” Mackercher's eyebrows knotted. “I'm sure he's also come for Mr. Higgins.”

“He'll challenge Higgins,” James contended. “If he finds him on the street.”

“Bailyn hasn't the decorum to stand for a challenge. Higgins must leave hastily. I offered him protection, transport to the Highlands. But he refused me. The man is troubled beyond what we know.”

From the slurry of voices behind them, a man asked, “Are you Seán Kennedy?”

James whirled to see Seán facing away, talking in hushed tones to one of the young lawyers near Giffard. Then James noticed two beady eyes watching him from the back of the gallery. Captain Bailyn's viper eyes beamed, mocking James's hurt and anger. James glanced again at Seán's back. A cacophony of bilious rage and overwhelming sadness swelled up, forcing him to look away. How could Seán stand there so calm, so deceitful, treasonous to all they had ever held sacred? James felt his gut rock and gurgle.

“O'Yea! O'Yea! O'Yea!” the bailiff bellowed from beside the bench, his words drawing everyone to their feet. “His Majesty's Honorable Court of Common Pleas is now in session, the Honorable Lord Justice Westerfield presiding. God save the King!” The judge, obese and looming, ambled in with his thick red robe dragging against everything. Finally arriving at his big chair, he sighed dramatically, then plopped down. He tugged at his robe to straighten it, and everyone took their seats.

“Bring in the jury,” Judge Westerfield grumbled softly. Twelve men streamed into the room from a side door, stepped into the jury box, and sat on the two long benches. To James, they all appeared tired, even drunk. This was their third trial for the day, he realized, but they seemed as though it was their forty-third. He watched for some sign of life, some glimmer of hope, something his direction. But there was nothing. Not even a glance. “James Annesley, laborer,” the judge intoned, “is charged with the crime of murder of a certain Mr. Fynn Kennedy, and that James Annesley did unto him, against the peace of our Lord, and the King who now is, and to the damage of said Mr. Fynn Kennedy, commit that most heinous offense. How plead the defendant?” Now judge and jury were staring at James. The gallery was silent.

Mackercher nudged James, whispering, “As prepared.”

James stood. “I am the rightful Earl of Anglesea and a peer of this realm. As such, I am not subject to this court.” Loud murmurs flew through the crowd.

“Oh? Are you now?” The judge smirked. “You sound like a pilferin' Irishman. Lord Irish, how do you plead?”

Now the room rippled with laughter. James flexed his jaw. Mackercher, now standing, said, “Your lordship, my client, James Annesley, Earl of Anglesea, pleads innocent of the charges of which he is so maliciously accused. I too reiterate that his title precludes him—”

“Very well,” the judge muttered. “And you are . . .”

“Sergeant Mackercher, your lordship.”

“Humph!” the judge snorted reprovingly, then looked down at his bench as if he were reading something. Mackercher and James took their seats. The judge raised an eyebrow at Mackercher. “Counsel, are you a Scotsman?”

Mackercher got to his feet again. “Aye, your lordship.”

“A Jacobite? The hell you say. In my court?”

“Nay, your lordship, a Whig. A loyal subject of our King.”

“You're all the same,” the judge sneered, then looked at his bailiff. “You let ‘em all in here, don't you? Scots defending papists, even.” The bailiff half nodded. Mackercher sat down, frowning. When the judge turned to the prosecution's table, his face softened to a fat, enveloping smile. “Well, if it isn't Prime Sergeant Giffard. I say, counsel, do come forward.”

“Good day, your lordship,” Giffard replied, moving swiftly to the bench.

As the solicitor approached, the judge asked, “Sergeant Giffard, how long has it been since you stepped foot in the Old Bailey?”

“Ah, Judge Westerfield, I—” began Giffard.

“Your lordship,” Mackercher was back on his feet, protesting. “If you're going to speak with Sergeant Giffard at the bench, may I approach as well?” He was already around the table.

“Agh, damn! Ney, Scot. Make your own friends,” the judge growled. “Step back.” He turned to Giffard, who was standing resolute beside the heavy walnut bench. “Come see me, John, after this…this matter. We'll share a spot of gin and tea.”

“Aye, your lordship. You are most gracious,” replied Giffard with a retreating bow.

“Now, Sergeants, let's not drag this thing out,” barked the judge, his expression reminding James of an angry bulldog. “I won't be tarried from my tea. Understood?”

“Aye, your lordship,” answered Mackercher and Giffard, almost in unison.

“So, what do you have for me, Sergeant Giffard?”

“If it may please the court, this is but a simple matter.” Giffard walked to the jury and began an abbreviated description of the case, facile with his language, relating in terse detail the misery to be told: On that fateful day, Mr. James Annesley had been hunting with the elderly Mr. Fynn Kennedy, and his son, Seán Kennedy, on the property of Mr. Daniel Mackercher (of note, the accused's counsel here today). For reasons known only to the accused (and perhaps Sergeant Mackercher as well?) as the afternoon ended Mr. Annesley effectively disarmed the two Kennedy men, then leveled his musket and fired it intentionally, willfully murdering the elder Mr. Kennedy without mercy or conscience. Barely five minutes passed before Giffard was once again in his seat.

Mackercher was next. In bare sentences, he told the jury the shooting had been an accident and that the evidence would show that to be true. Then he thanked the gentlemen of the jury and returned to his place beside James.

Mackercher had no sooner sat down when Seán was called to the front. James watched him carefully as he walked by, the gait, the uncertain stance, shoulders slumped, looking pitiful and alone. James felt anger rising again. After Seán swore to tell the truth and was warned of the penalties for perjury, he turned around, at last facing James. But he kept his eyes on the floor, as if also studying the long planks that ran to James. He stood solemn, motionless in the center of the witnesses box.

Giffard approached slowly, and after a few preliminary questions, he steered the subject to the hunt. “Mr. Kennedy, you were hunting with your father and James Annesley that day?”

“Aye.”

“And at the end of the day, you came upon a small lake and rested there. Is that right?”

“Aye.”

“What did you do with your muskets? They were still rammed and powdered, aye?”

Seán stared at his feet, then the far wall. “James unloaded our muskets and—”

“Yours and your father's?”

“Aye.”

“What about
his
, Mr. Kennedy? What about Mr. Annesley's musket?”

“He didn't unload it, I suppose.”

“Clearly he didn't. So he made sure you and your father had disarmed your weapons before he…. Well, you tell us what happened next.”