Fortunate Son (37 page)

Richard continued to stare at the floor without response.

“Is that understood, Mr. Annesley?” Bowes thundered.

When Richard still said nothing, Malone rose to his feet. “‘Tis understood, my lord.”

“When he returns to his senses, Sergeant Malone,” Bowes grumbled, “make it clear to him that I shall hold him in contempt if he ever once violates, or attempts to violate, this order. And I am sure appropriate action will also be taken by the Earl.”

“Aye, my lord,” Malone conceded.

Bowes turned to face James. “The Right Honorable James, Sixth Baron of Altham, Eighth Earl of Anglesea, shall no doubt enforce my decree as well, aye?”

James popped up and enthused, “Most certainly, my lord.”

“On that, I declare this matter finished. This court stands adjourned.”

Again, the spectators clapped and cheered. James turned and clasped Mackercher's arm. “We did it! Well done, Mr. Mackercher. Well done, indeed! We did it!”

Mackercher stood, appearing stunned, then nodded slowly. “B'jingo, I guess we did.”

“I can never thank ye enough—”

“Please, Lord Anglesea,” Mackercher intoned, “I pray ya'll keep our bargain. I have been fully compensated today.”

James beamed. “Ye're a great man, Daniel Mackercher.”

Mackercher smiled, then looked at the noisy crowd. “Ya'd better go, m'lord. I'll see ya at the Stag's Head.”

“Very well. We'll meet there,” James replied, then walked away. As he came through the barrister's gate, people rushed him. People he had never seen before were bowing, curtsying, calling him Lord Anglesea, congratulating him on his victory. He looked for Laura and pulled her to his side. Seán went ahead of them, clearing the way. Though grateful for the kind words, he needed to get out, to breathe, to talk with Laura, with Seán. They left the courtroom only to find the foyer more crowded with shouting people. Pushing through the masses, James turned away from the main doors. “Here. In here,” he said, pulling Laura around and down another corridor.

“I'll get Mr. Mackercher,” Seán offered, with Ann close behind.

“Aye. Thank ye, Seán,” shouted James. “He'll meet us at the Stag. And you two as well? Ye'll be there, won't ye?”

“Aye, we will. How will ye get out of here?”

“Isn't there a back way through the cathedral? There used to be.”

“Best I remember. Ye'd better go,” Seán said, smiling. “I am happy for ye, Seámus. This is a great day.” Another quick embrace and Seán turned, disappearing in the crowd.

James held Laura's hand, pulling her down the hall until the throng was well behind them, the noises growing soft. “Somewhere back here is a passage that opens into the churchyard,” he said. A bit farther they found it and stepped outside into the nippy, brumous air, and into the blast of the bells of Christ Church. Somehow, inside, over the dissonance of the crowds, the explosion of joy, they had not noticed the bells—which were not ringing rhythmically, as they would to announce a service, the hour, or even a death knell. They were clanging chaotically, jubilantly peeling the victory. Squinting up at the bell tower, tears welled in his eyes. Then he looked down, slowly shifting around, realizing the place. “This is the churchyard,” he muttered. “This is the place, Laura. Right there,” he pointed at the south transept door, “that is where I walked out. And here….” He released her hand and walked slowly forward. “This is where Richard rode up, those years ago.” He studied the ground, the wet yellow grass. Laura cinched her cape tighter, watching him move about. “These benches weren't here then,” he continued. “This was all open in this area. He rode up on us. And declared me a bastard. And I received this scar.” He touched the right side of his face. “This is the place.” Laura came behind him and put her hands on his back. James looked up again. “And those bells were ringing for my father.” He turned to his right. “And Fynn was beside me. Juggy and Seán were over there.” He pointed to the far wall near Fishamble Street, then fell silent, the velvety mist covering their faces.

“I'll ride with Mr. Mackercher, or Seán,” she breathed gently.

He kept his eyes ahead, still envisioning the past. “Aye. Ye should get out of this dampness.” He turned to her. “I'll walk ye.”

“Nay,
Acushla
,” she said, her eyes replete with compassion. “Stay for a while. I'll go round that way. It leads to the carriages, aya?”

“It does. Promise me ye'll come back if ye don't see one of ours?”

“I will.” She didn't move right away, but instead gave him a small smile, unblinking, as though her vivid blue eyes were seeing straight through him. “I love ya, James, Earl of Anglesea,” she said.

He meekly whispered, “
Acushla
. Sweet lady of mine. I love you.” As she turned to go, he reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. “I'll see ye at the inn?”

“Aya, James.”

“Thank ye for…. Thank ye,” he said. She sighed with a smile and a slight shake of her head, then walked away. He watched her down the path until she disappeared around the corner. Then he walked quickly, farther into the churchyard. From there he could see her. She was at the street, a footman helping her into their carriage. James turned back, tilting his face up. The cathedral's gigantic, ashen stone walls towered over him, its sombrous buttresses stretching high into the Dublin sky, disappearing into the low, dove-grey clouds. He could not tell where the spire ended and the sky began. As he lowered his gaze, focusing on the transept door, the bells finally stopped. In the silence, a calmness fell, the sound of the mist, the sound of distant hooves on cobblestones, coach wheels rolling, faraway voices. It was quiet. It was peace. It was over. It was his. He walked slowly to the door, gravel crunching under his feet, then turned the big iron handle and went in.

The cold air followed him in. James walked to the front of the nave and stopped. He could hear whispers, saw a few people moving in the shadows, talking quietly, a few in the nave, on their knees. He looked back at the choir chamber, then up, past the chancel screen, watching the organ's pipes stretch for the vaulted ceiling.

“May I help ye, sir?” asked a man with an Orphean voice.

James turned. “Ah, nay sir. Thank ye kindly.”

The clerk nodded, smiling, then slipped away.

“Sir?” James called after him. “Pardon me, but where is the chapterhouse?”

“‘Tis outside, sir, between the south wall and the Four Courts.”

James thanked him and turned to go.

“But ye may get to it through there, if ye wish,” the man added, gesturing to a small door under the darkly arched arcade.

“Good. I thank ye.” James walked slowly down the middle of the nave, then back to the south wall. He knocked on the door softly. When no answer came, he eased it open. Entering, he noticed it was windowless, lit only by a sole rush light flittering against the stone wall. He surveyed its tables, books and assortment of chairs. It appeared more of a rector's study than what he thought to be a chapterhouse. He walked to one of the tables, running his fingers across its smooth coolness. “I'm finally here, Mum,” he whispered. He leaned against the wall, exhausted, rubbing his forehead.

Suddenly a man in a minister's robe entered. “Oh, pardon me, son,” exclaimed the man, obviously surprised to find someone there.

James stood straight. “Nay, Father. Pardon me. I was just leaving.”

“Do ye have business with me?”

“Nay, I was leaving,” whispered James, stepping past him. “Sorry to intrude. I was curious, and…. Pardon me.” He walked into the nave, his footsteps echoing softly across the flagstones until he took a seat on an empty pew near the center. Above, he saw the stone arches curving into the dark overhead, then noticed the carvings at the top of each pillar along the arcade. The faces he had seen so many years ago were staring back at him now with their same implacable expressions. He considered each in turn, looking for one in particular. Then he found her. The young woman's face was still dead, her eyes still closed. He stared at her. Nothing happened. He glanced to his right, at the tombs of Strongbow and his halved son, and realized where he was sitting. He rose and moved up two pews, and over to the middle. Now he was in the same pew where he sat at his father's funeral. He closed his eyes, imagining Fynn beside him, then opened his eyes, picturing his father's casket at the front of the nave. Then he remembered his father was in the crypt below, but nothing lured him to go. Again he closed his eyes. He heard the swish of a dress from behind, feet treading slowly down the center aisle. His eyes eased open but he kept them down, hoping not to be recognized. The woman slipped in beside him, yet across the aisle. He heard the clump of an object being set on her bench.

“M'lord?” she ventured in a quivering voice.

James hesitated, then took a deep breath, preparing to say something cordial before standing and moving away. He scooted slightly to his right, away from the aisle.

“M'lord?” the wrinkled voice came again. He had heard it before but couldn't place it. Slowly, he turned his head to see Charity Heath, her gaze to the floor. Her bloodshot eyes flicked up at him, her sagging, flushed cheeks streaked with tears. She had appeared disheveled and tired in court, but now James saw her as old and broken.

“Madam Heath?” he said, his voice cautiously gentle.

She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. “M'lord, I did ye wrong in there, in the court yesterday.” She refused to look at him again, keeping her sad eyes down.

“Aye, ye did,” said James. He scooted left, closer to the aisle, closer to her.

“They're going t' charge me with perjury, m'lord,” she cried. Now she looked up at the glimmering candles, the light reflecting off her wet face.

“I suppose they will.”

She hunched forward, fully weeping. He regarded her, feeling sorry for her, sorry that she had fallen into Richard's snare. She sniffed again, now loudly. “Ye can, m'lord…Lord Anglesea,” she muttered, “you can grant me a pardon. Ye can have me forgiven.”

James stood and moved across the aisle to sit next to her. He touched her slumped head. “I'll have to think about that.” He observed a small amber chest sitting beside her, a dull floral print covering its humped lid. It seemed familiar somehow, a deep resonance, a distant memory. Far away, yet intimately close.

“M'lord?” she whispered.

“Aye, ma'am?”

“This is yers,” she said, sniffing, glancing at the chest. She lifted it over her lap and placed it on the bench between them.

“‘Tis mine?”

“Aye, m'lord.” She looked up at him, tears coming in a torrent. He waited, silently watching as she collected herself and wiped her eyes. “It is…‘twas yer mother's, Lady Anglesea's. She….”

James glanced at the chest, then back to Charity. “She what?”

“She wanted me to give it to ye.”

James felt his heart cave. “And ye kept it all these years?”

“Aye, m'lord. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I am.”

“What's in it?”

“I know not, m'lord. ‘Tis locked, and I never…. I never tried t' open it.”

He stared at her, this little breaking woman, and felt only pity.

“‘Tis just that…I wronged ye, m'lord. I wanted t' come. Set things right. T' bring ye what's yers. I hoped ye might be here.” She stood and he stood as well. As she went, he stepped to let her pass. “I'm terribly sorry,” she said, softly crying as she moved.

“Thank ye,” James murmured, knowing nothing else to say.

He watched her walk away, her sniffs echoing as she went. Then he sat again and stared at the chest. He ran his hands across its curved back, across the faint images, then touched the keyhole. With a sigh, he reached up and loosened his ascot, then pulled the key from around his neck. As he had done so many times, he ran his thumb over the “B,” though it was now faint. Inserting the key, he turned it, hearing the light click.

A white damask cloth was folded inside, undisturbed. He gingerly touched it, his mind saturated with the image of his mother. Then he lifted the damask and found more cloth beneath it, then a locket on a gold chain, a pair of silver spoons, a small ring, and on the bottom, a yellowed sheet of parchment. Gently, he pulled out the parchment—a faded sheet of music titled
Greensleeves
at the top. He smiled, the sound of the melody swelling in his mind. Reaching back into the box, he pulled back a different layer of the cloth and found another piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. He held it up to the light, flipping it over, then back again, studying it, then gently broke the seal. Unfolding it, he saw it was a letter.

James stopped. So she had indeed been there.
Damn. Why didn't she hear me? God, I yelled and yelled.
He read on.

His breathing nearly stopped as he fumbled through the folded cloth and grabbed the gold locket from the chest. He held it tightly as he finished reading.

Mouth agape and dry, eyes locked wide, James set the letter aside. He pulled the locket up, his hand nearly shaking, the chain flopped over. He paused, almost frozen, as if not opening it might change things, might erase what he had just read. He began shaking his head, then suddenly went into motion, frantically fumbling with the catch until it finally flipped open. Staring out at him was the ruddily young, distinctively handsome, unmistakable face of Fynn Kennedy.