The Sting of Justice
Page 16
‘What do you think made the hole?’ she asked holding it out to Giolla.
‘A stick poking into it,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Not a knife?’
‘No, not a knife: that would leave a different hole; a knife would cut and would leave a sharp narrow opening. You can see here how the stick has pushed in the straw.’
‘But you haven’t seen any stick?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ His tone was dissatisfied. ‘I’ve searched everywhere trying to find something that would have made that size of hole. I’ll keep my eyes open, though, Brehon, and I’ll let you know if I do find anything.’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes, Giolla, thank you; please keep the skep safe and don’t use it again until I give you the word.’
Where was the stick, she wondered. What had happened to it after the deed had been accomplished?
Rory and Toin were sitting in the pear orchard when Mara and Turlough came in after Mass. Bran came across to greet them and then returned to the wooden bench where Rory was strumming his zither, taking up his position at his feet. The boys always said that Bran loved music, but Mara suspected that he just liked to be in the centre of any group. Mara crossed over and sat beside Rory, looking closely at the zither. It was quite a new instrument, obviously bought for him by Sorley – there had been nothing but a simple lute in evidence when Rory had played in the garden of Cahermacnaghten during the summer months. He held the instrument flat on his lap, the fingers of his left hand plucked at the strings on the narrow top while his right thumb, gloved with a gold plectrum, softly stroked the notes from the body of the zither.
‘Leave the lad to play and come and have your glass of muscadet,’ ordered Toin. He was looking better than earlier: never better than when he was attending to the wants of his guests, surmised Mara as she came across to him and accepted a pear while Tomas filled the delicate fine glass with the golden wine. Mara bit into the pear, holding the juice in her mouth and then swallowing it with a sip of the sweet perfumed muscadet. Toin was right; they did go well together. She leaned back on the grassy seat and closed her eyes. The November sun was as warm as if it were still September and the bees were searching the flowers at the side of the orchard. For a while their busy noise was soothing but then it brought her mind back to the graveyard and the man who died there.
‘Toin,’ she said tentatively, ‘I know you were feeling very ill on the day that Sorley was killed, but do you remember seeing Deirdre going into the church?’
Toin nodded vigorously. ‘I do indeed. I remember that she passed me just as Tómas was giving me my poppy syrup. She went down the path and followed Cathal the sea captain into the church.’ He added with a quick smile, ‘and, before you ask it, Sorley was still by the gate at that stage.’
Well, that’s two people off my list, thought Mara. Una, I saw myself. She had her maidservant with her, but Cuan? What about Cuan? From the reports at Poulnabrone, he, as well as Rory, came quite late into the church.
‘No more,’ she said with a smile, shaking her head as Toin held out the flagon invitingly. ‘The king and I have a long ride ahead of us. We are having dinner at the abbey.’
‘Leave Bran and collect him on your way back,’ said Toin. ‘Tomás has taken a fancy to him and he seems fond of young Rory also. Come and look at the rest of my garden before you go. You should see my flowers,’ he boasted. ‘It’s like the height of summer.’
Mara got to her feet willingly. I’m going to miss Toin when he goes, she thought sadly. No one else quite shared her passionate love of flowers.
‘It’s wonderful, this year, isn’t it?’ she said, surveying the ranked masses of peonies, pinks and loosestrife. ‘It almost seems as if winter has forgotten to come, and yet we’re past Samhain.’
‘The dying of the year.’ Toin’s voice was reflective with no trace of melancholy in it.
Mara stood for a moment looking around. Toin’s garden was packed to the last inch with flowers and the late autumn colours of purple and gold, all blowing slightly in the gentle breeze, seemed like a banner. At the edge of the garden, the tiny Rathborney river curved its way through the flowers, towards the mountain gap. Tall velvet-brown bulrushes lined its sides. Mara bent down and stroked one. Its surface was as soft as fur to her fingers.
‘I wish I had a river in my garden.’ Mara looked admiringly at a few last creamy flowers of meadowsweet, the pale pink bistort and the solitary purple loosestrife that lined the banks. ‘Look at those reeds still such a vivid green. Don’t they make a gorgeous background to the lovely colours of your flowers!’
‘You should see it in the spring,’ said Toin boastfully. ‘I’ve got primroses and violets and kingcups and marsh orchids all along here.’ He stopped for a moment and then said quietly: ‘You will come and see it in the spring, won’t you? I’d like to think of you doing that.’
‘I will,’ said Mara. She knew; and knew that Toin himself knew; that he would never see the springtime glory of his garden again, but she understood his feeling. The pleasure in a garden was doubled when it was shared with an admirer.
‘You go on, now,’ he said, with a change of tone. ‘King Turlough will be waiting for you. Enjoy your day.’
There were bees everywhere. Never had Mara been so conscious of them. The slopes of Cappanabhaile Mountain were clothed in brightly coloured pink and purple plants of stiff-stemmed heather. Many beekeepers had moved their hives up here, she noticed as she and Turlough cantered along the path beside the steep slopes of Cappanabhaile. Some were wooden hives, with pointed wooden roofs; others were the old-fashioned straw skeps used by Giolla.
‘Great honey,’ said Turlough following the direction of her eyes.
‘Why? Not that I know much about honey. I don’t really like the stuff. It’s too sweet for me.’
‘Heather makes a lovely honey,’ explained Turlough. ‘Not like ivy; that makes a dark, bitter honey. I think most of the beekeepers just leave ivy honey to be used by the bees themselves. It keeps them alive during the winter months. Now, heather honey, well you can make a great mead with that – but then, you don’t like mead much either, do you?’
Mara shook her head with a smile. ‘Again it’s too sweet for me; I prefer wine. I’d imagine most people do. Otherwise why would so many thousands of tuns of wine be imported into Galway every year? I think that Oisín, you know, my son-in-law, told me that about 120,000 gallons of wine came into the docks in Galway last August, while I was staying with them.’
‘There’s Galway Bay for you,’ said Turlough pointing. ‘I always love the first sign of the sea. I suppose it was because I was born and brought up in an inland place and, you won’t believe this, but I never actually saw the sea until I was fourteen years old. I had finished school at Emly – the monks had decided that they couldn’t leather anything else into my thick head – so my uncle, Conor na Sróna, big-nosed Conor, he thought I should do some work for my living and so he sent me with his steward to collect tribute from the O’Lochlainn at the Burren. That was Ardal O’Lochlainn’s father and he was a very nice man. He invited us to stay with him, he was living in Gleninagh Tower, over there, just near the sea and I thought it was all wonderful.’
‘Imagine not seeing the sea until you were fourteen years old,’ said Mara. She looked all around and took in a deep breath of the salty air. The mountains of Cappanabhaile on their left and of Moveen on their right gleamed silver in the sun and the sea was a deep blue, as blue as the sapphire in Turlough’s ring. A sturdily built ship, with sails of bleached linen, moored by the pier, rocked gently and a fishing boat steered for the harbour followed by a cloud of hungrily squawking seagulls. She narrowed her eyes. There was a man walking down the small narrow street that led to the harbour. His back was turned but there was something about the rolling gait and the squat figure that was familiar.
‘Cathal,’ she called and he turned instantly, a squarely built man, with weather-stained clothes and a very brown face.
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nbsp; ‘How are you, Brehon?’ he said, crossing the road and standing by her horse. ‘My lord.’ He made a deep bow in the king’s direction.
‘How is everything going, Cathal?’ asked Mara.
‘Very well.’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I was going to come to see you tomorrow. I wanted your advice.’
‘Well, you can have it now if it won’t take too long,’ she said good-humouredly. In her hard-working, overcrowded life she had early learned the value of never postponing anything that could be dealt with instantly. ‘Do you want to see me privately?’ she asked with a quick glance at the king.
‘No, no, nothing private about it at all.’ Cathal was relaxed and affable, a man who was sure of himself and of his place in his world.
‘Is that your ship down there?’ asked Turlough. ‘I’ll just ride down and have a look at it. Looks a fine vessel.’
‘The king will enjoy looking at your boat,’ said Mara reassuringly, seeing that Cathal looked rather concerned. Like most men of the kingdom he was a courteous man with a high regard for the king. He would not have liked to inconvenience him in any way. ‘What was it that you wanted to ask me about?’
‘Well, it’s to do with the man who died, Sorley the silversmith.’ He hesitated and Mara nodded.
‘You were there at the church, of course, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Cathal eyed her a slightly apprehensive way. ‘I had nothing to do with the bees going after him, though,’ he said bluntly.
‘No, no, you were seen going into the church while Sorley was still alive. You were just in front of a woman called Deirdre.’ She waited for a moment, but he said nothing. That meant little, though. He would probably not have known her so would have taken no notice of a middle-aged woman behind him. ‘I just wanted to ask you whether you could remember anyone coming in late. You were at the back of the church, weren’t you?’
‘I remember the young bard, Rory, isn’t it? I remember him coming in late.’
‘Do you remember whether he had his hood up or down?’ asked Mara.
‘Up,’ said Cathal confidently. Mara nodded. This was a useful confirmation.
‘I wonder why he had the hood up coming into the church – especially as it was so fine.’ Her tone was conversational, but Cathal gave her a keen look.
‘Well, you know these young lads, Brehon,’ he said tolerantly. ‘He pulled the hood down and then that gave him a chance to comb through his hair and show all the young maidens his golden curls.’
Mara laughed. ‘But you wanted to see me is it about the silver that was lost? I know about this troublesome affair, Cathal,’ she added quickly as she could see him trying to marshal his thoughts to explain the whole matter to her.
‘It’s just that I wondered, now that Sorley is dead, should I approach the son and ask for more time, or is it the daughter who is the heir?’
‘I think,’ said Mara thoughtfully, deciding to ignore the last question, ‘it might be best if you left the matter to me. Would that be all right, Cathal? Would you be happy for me to handle it?’
‘More than happy,’ said Cathal gratefully. ‘I was talking to Toin the briuga – I’m going to bring some goods over for him when I return from my next voyage so I went to tell him that I would be leaving in about ten days’ time and he suggested that I have a word with you about it. I’ll leave it to you then, Brehon, and I’m sorry that I interrupted your Sunday ride with the king.’ His eyes went to Turlough who had handed his horse to one of the bodyguards and was now walking up the gangplank closely shadowed by the other bodyguard.
‘I’ll ride down and look at your vessel, too,’ said Mara, ‘though we mustn’t be long as we’ve promised to have dinner with the abbot and the sun is going around; it will soon be noon. So you’ll be staying around here for a while, will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Cathal. ‘I’m picking up some flagstones from Doolin in about ten days’ time and taking them over to the north of France. That will be my outgoing cargo.’
The king’s cousin, the abbot, was pacing the fine green grass of the garth outside the guesthouse of the abbey when they arrived. He was not alone, but was deep in conversation with his brother, Mahon O‘Brien. Mara was struck by the resemblance between the three cousins as Turlough dismounted from his horse and greeted them. This resemblance was particularly strong between Mahon and Turlough who shared the same heavy build and height as well as the high-bridged O’Brien nose and lofty forehead.
However, it was not the royal cousins that engaged Mara’s interest as she handed her reins to the porter, but a young, fresh-faced man who leaned against the stone wall of the cloisters, smothering a yawn. His eyes brightened when they saw her and he took a few eager strides forward.
‘Brehon,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘it’s good to see you again.’
‘Cormac, how are you? I don’t need to ask – you’re looking wonderful. How was Cork?’
‘Good,’ said Cormac. ‘I got a lot of experience there, then I had a few months as an aigne in Oriel and now here I am.’ He turned to smile politely at the stately figure of the abbot.
‘Well, Brehon, it’s good to see you. You are well?’ Father Donogh O’Brien, abbot of St Mary of the Fertile Rock, the Cistercian abbey in the north of the Burren was the king’s cousin. Like him, and yet quite unlike him Mara always thought. She made suitable replies to the queries and listened respectfully to his plans for the wedding on Christmas Day while all the time she was wondering how to get Cormac to herself.
‘And now you will wish to see Conor,’ the abbot was saying to Turlough. ‘I’ll escort you to the guesthouse.’
‘I’ll wait here with Cormac,’ said Mara quickly seizing the opportunity. ‘We don’t want to be all crowding in on an invalid at the same moment. I’ll join you in a little while, my lord.’
Without waiting for an answer, she seized Cormac by the arm and led him into the enclosed cloisters’ garth.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Cormac when they were alone. He opened his satchel and she could see inside it rows of scrolls all tied neatly with the legal pink linen tape. ‘I heard that you were investigating the murder of the silversmith. Well, believe it or not, all of these are to do with cases that Sorley the silversmith brought to the court at Kinvarra. He seems to have been a great man for the law,’ Cormac lowered his voice and added, ‘and by some strange coincidence things always seemed to go his way.’ He gave a quick look at her face: ‘That doesn’t surprise you, Brehon, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t, Cormac,’ said Mara shaking her head wryly. ‘I understand that there was some very fine silver at the Brehon’s house in Kinvarra, also.’ She spoke lightly, but there was a deep distaste within her for a Brehon who could be bribed and would betray his oath for some silver.
‘Hmm,’ said Cormac with a grin, ‘well, an innocent young lad like myself would know nothing about that sort of thing. Anyway, this may be the scroll that you are interested in.’ He had it out before she replied and had begun unwrapping it.
‘This is the divorce of Sorley from his wife Deirdre; I just made a few notes here to save you time.’ He gave a quick glance around. Mara nodded. She understood. Cormac was newly appointed; he would not want to offend Mahon O’Brien in any way by appearing to question the judgements of his successor.
‘Just keep an eye on the gate to cloisters like a good boy,’ she said as she quickly scanned down through the pompous legal phrases and then looked at Cormac’s note. She nodded with satisfaction as she read that. ‘Neat, succinct and to the point,’ she commented. ‘Remind me again: who taught you?’ He grinned at that and she handed him back the scroll. ‘Just tie that up again and put it away,’ she said. ‘Your notes are all that I need.’
The notes were clear, concise and informative. The husband had made the accusation; no witnesses were called. Deirdre’s testimony was not asked for and the judgement had been delivered without any defence or denial being entered.
The law had manifestly not protected Deirdre on that occasion, but Mara was determined that justice would ultimately be done.
TWELVE
GÚBRETHA CARATNIAD (THE FALSE JUDGEMENTS OF CARATNIA)
There are seven things which a husband may cite if he wishes to divorce his wife:
1.Unfaithfulness
2.Persistent thieving
3.Inducing an abortion
4.Smothering her child
5.Bringing shame on his honour
6.Starving her child
7.Absconding from the marriage home
‘THERE ARE MANY DIFFERENCES between English law and Brehon law,’ Mara informed her scholars. The boys were finding it hard to concentrate. It had rained heavily all day on Monday so they had no fresh air and exercise yesterday. It had still been raining this morning so even their midmorning break had to be spent indoors. An hour of Latin, followed by an hour of Greek and then an hour spent memorizing pages of the thousands of judgement texts meant that they were all now tired and looking sleepy. ‘I was thinking about this on Sunday,’ she went on, ‘when I was riding home from my visit to the abbey with the king. I met Cormac there – you all remember Cormac – and he was telling me the details of Deirdre and Sorley’s divorce. Sorley divorced Deirdre for infidelity. It appeared that she made no defence and no witnesses were called. I found that strange, don’t you?’
‘You mean he gave no proper evidence?’ asked Moylan, abandoning his attempt to carve something on his desk and looking at her alertly.