Ardal, Mara realized with amusement, was making conversation, talking about the weather just like any farmer. He so seldom did that. He must have sensed that she was slightly reluctant to come to the point. However, she had no excuse to waste a busy man’s time so she plunged in.
‘I wanted your opinion of Aengus?’ she said.
‘A good worker. Very reliable. Nice man. Very gentle fellow. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He looked at her searchingly.
‘And Clodagh.’
‘She didn’t work for me. I know little of her except hearsay.’ He folded his lips firmly and looked away from her and back at his horses.
Hearsay was not something that Ardal O’Lochlainn, who seldom spoke an unnecessary word, would deal in. Mara realized that she would have to take him into her confidence. She had known him a long time – they had grown up as neighbours and his younger sister, Mór, Nuala’s mother, had been her best friend. Ardal was the second of two brothers and there was, she remembered, a lot of excited gossip when his father had put forward his younger, not his elder, son for the position of tánaiste (heir). The clan had agreed to the father’s choice, and had, she knew, never regretted it. Most of the people in the kingdom of the Burren belonged to one of four major clans: O’Lochlainn, O’Brien, MacNamara or O’Connor. Of these Ardal’s clan had grown to be the largest and the most important, but he himself lived in a simple style, a good landlord, trusted and respected by his people and by his king. There was no one in the kingdom whose discretion Mara trusted more. She decided to probe a little.
‘How did Aengus take the news of his wife’s death?’
‘Wept a little. Poor old fellow. Danann gave him something to drink, some hot ale; that did him good and then he had something to eat. Your girl Cael was very kind to him, and young Art. They broke the news very gently to him and Art looked so upset that Aengus seemed to want to comfort him, more than to make too much of his loss. He was delighted when Cormac and his wolfhound arrived; he loves dogs. Dullahán the Large, was a great distraction.’
Ardal was uneasy, Mara sensed. It wasn’t like him to try to make a joke. Nice fellow, one of the best, trust him with my life, but too serious, was her husband, King Turlough’s verdict on his principal vassal in the Burren. Ardal, she guessed, knew that Aengus would be under suspicion and he was protective towards him, anxious, also, she thought.
‘Could you gauge his reaction to the news of his wife’s death?’ This was a question that she would ask of Cael and Art afterwards, but she was interested in the opinion of a man who had employed Aengus for well over thirty years. He took a long time to answer, and when the reply came, it was unexpected.
‘I think that he felt frightened, worried,’ said Ardal.
‘Frightened of accusation? Frightened of retribution?’
He looked at her closely and did not answer that question but substituted one of his own.
‘Should he be?’ asked Aengus’s employer and his clan taoiseach.
‘You know that is not a question that I can answer, Ardal,’ said Mara trying to suppress a note of irritation. Surely he should know that she could not openly divulge any suspicions to him. And then when he didn’t respond, she substituted another question.
‘Would you consider that Aengus is simple-minded, Ardal?’ She watched him closely and saw a look of genuine surprise on his face.
‘No, no, what put that in your mind?’ After a minute, when she said no more, he added, ‘These men of the hills, they’re slow to talk. They spend most of their lives up there in the quiet, nothing but the sound of the larks to listen to and the flight of the eagles to watch. If you want quick wits, clever answers, go to a carpenter’s shop or a blacksmith’s forge, but if you want the truth go to the men on the hills; that’s what my father used to say. He thought a lot of his shepherds and his herdsmen. Aengus used to live up there, on Slieve Elva, all of the year around, you know, in one of those booley huts, before he married Clodagh and, to be honest, I think that he still spends lots of his time up there. It’s his own affair; I am the gainer by it so I don’t object. Anything else was between himself and his wife.’
‘I wonder what put it into his head to marry her,’ said Mara. ‘Do you remember the marriage, Ardal? You’re older than I am and I suppose your father may have been involved, may have spoken to you about it.’
A slight look of distaste crossed Ardal’s face, but it disappeared almost instantly. ‘No, I’ve no memory of it,’ he said shortly. ‘Seventeen-year-old boys are not interested in such affairs.’
‘How did the marriage work out?’ Mara wished that he would not be so cautious. Surely he knew that she was not engaging in idle gossip but was trying to probe possible motives for this killing of the elderly wife of one of his shepherds. Murder, she thought, was like a sore. Allowed to remain closed up beneath the surface the poison grew and made the whole body sick. Once opened up and the evil substance drained and the sore exposed to the air, then recovery would come. She looked enquiringly at him when he did not respond immediately.
‘I’m no expert on marriage, Brehon,’ he said with the air of a man who measures his words. ‘I’ve never been too tempted to dip my own toe in the water, though, of course, I know that it works well in many cases,’ he added politely. ‘As for Aengus and Clodagh, I’d say that you could find others who would guess the reason for the marriage better than I. Neither my father nor myself ever felt that it was any business of ours to interfere in the marriage plans of our tenants or our workers.’
‘I suspect that she may have been the one that asked him. What do you think?’ But he said nothing, just nodded, whether in agreement or in acknowledgement of her words, she didn’t know and so she went back to the subject of Aengus.
‘The law,’ she said carefully not looking in his face, but, while she marshalled her thoughts, bending down to pick a tiny fragrant violet from the large clump that had seeded itself in a conveniently shady place on the north side of the wall. ‘The law,’ she continued, her eyes on the exquisite flower as she inhaled the faint sweet scent, ‘makes it clear that a drúth is someone who is perhaps not insane, but does not have the full reasoning powers of a man, is not responsible for his actions. He must be cared for, watched, so that he does not commit a crime, but not punished for an action that may not have been deliberate on his part.’ She looked hopefully into his face, but it was impossible to read Ardal O’Lochlainn. ‘Your evidence, as a man of good repute, as taoiseach, would be taken very seriously by the court, as it was when you gave evidence about the land fit to graze seven cows,’ she could not resist adding.
‘I would certainly give evidence that Aengus was a good-tempered gentle man during all the years that I had known him,’ said Ardal evenly.
‘But what about his understanding, his mind?’
‘I would have to say, if questioned on the matter, that his understanding was as good as that of the other herdsmen or shepherds.’
Mara nodded her head. This was integrity and integrity was something that she valued. She had no right to complain if it did not go the way that she had intended. She would have to trust him and to go back to where Ardal felt comfortable.
‘There is,’ she admitted, ‘the possibility that Clodagh was killed by someone close to her. Would Aengus be capable of that?’
He took his time over his answer, gazing thoughtfully at his young horses, but when it came it was quick and decisive. ‘I’ve learned through sad experience, Brehon, never to judge the guilt or innocence of anyone except myself.’
Mara swallowed this. She guessed what sad experience that he referred to, but she was finding this noble attitude intensely irritating. However, she knew how stubborn he was, so she veered away from the question of Aengus and his capability for crime.
‘And the brothers?’
Ardal hesitated. He was always the soul of discretion, never presumed on his status as chieftain of the most numerous clan in the kingdom of the Burren. He said no more, allowing her to ig
nore his silence, or to pursue the matter.
‘You would know them better than I,’ she said frankly. ‘They are so nearly out of this kingdom and into Corcomroe, well, you know yourself. They went to Fergus, not to me, when it was a question of their uncle making a will in their favour.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Ardal.
‘As you say,’ she said wryly. And then she decided to ask the question. ‘Did you believe them?’
‘Of course.’ The response was instant so she decided to move onto the next question.
‘But you helped to ensure that Clodagh got all the land. Without your evidence I would have given her only the house and a portion of land. The law is quite clear on that. A female can only inherit land for her lifetime and that land can only be enough to graze seven cows.’ There was, of course, the proviso that if the land was gained by a man’s endeavours, rather than through inheritance, this could be passed on to a daughter for ever. Mara, personally, had benefited from this as her father, a Brehon, had been given the land by the king of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren in order to found a law school. Now she looked enquiringly at Ardal.
‘I spoke the truth,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘I surveyed the land. It’s full of rocks and stones. I wouldn’t put cattle on that land. They would break their legs. To my mind it’s fit only for sheep and goats. Pat uses it for goats and I think that is the best use for it.’
‘I understand,’ said Mara. Ask an honest man a question and you get an honest answer, she thought. ‘Neither of us could have said, neither of us could have done anything different on that day,’ she said firmly, ‘but …’
The fact remains, she thought, that a woman died and died in horrible circumstances soon after that day at Poulnabrone.
‘It was strange, though, was it not,’ he said suddenly, ‘that Clodagh knew of all the procedure for laying claim to the land. I was surprised, at any rate. I can’t seem to remember a case when this was quoted before. I presume that she was right in all of her details. I had a word with the priest after the judgement day and he told me that he just went because requested, but he had never heard of such a procedure before. All this business about …’
Mara smiled. ‘It’s something that the scholars learn in law school,’ she said. ‘It’s called Din Techtugad meaning “On Legal Entry” and it dictates that: “In the case of a dispute over the inheritance of property, the claimant should cross the boundary and should formally enter the land to which he lays claim, taking with him two horses and two male witnesses. He should kindle a fire and then withdraw asking for arbitration within seven days.” But,’ she went on, ‘according to the female judge, Brig, a woman may also evoke this process and may take with her such livestock or articles which are precious to women and in this case the witnesses may be female. The interesting thing, Ardal, is that it almost appeared as if Clodagh O’Lochlainn had studied the law books and had done everything according to the ancient law of Brig, the first female Brehon. Do you remember what she said, Ardal? I remember it very clearly, perhaps because it echoed something that I had studied as a child.’ She paused for a moment, remembering Clodagh’s rough voice and then quoted: ‘This, as far as I can remember, is what she said: “I, Clodagh O’Lochlainn, claim the land of my father and of his father, and back through the generations for time out of mind. And as the law commands …”’
‘I remember that,’ said Ardal. ‘Yes, I remember her saying it and I remember how she said it. Her voice was very forcible, I remember it echoing off the cliff. I don’t remember the rest of it, though.’
‘I remember it,’ said Mara. ‘And I remember it because it was one of the first things that I learned when I entered my father’s law school, when I was five years old.’ She thought for a moment, remembering that far off day, standing there in her snowy white léine, starched and washed by Brigid the night before her darling started school. ‘I could quote it to you, word for word, as Clodagh said it: “I entered my property, crossing the boundary line, tethering two ewes, leaving my kneading trough and my spindle as a token of my presence and kindling a fire on the hearth. I took with me two witnesses.” That was what she said, and her two witnesses were Father Eoin O’Lochlainn and his sacristan, Padraic. Do you remember that, Ardal?’
‘Not as clearly as you do,’ he said, ‘but it was something along those lines.’
Mara waited for a moment, expecting the obvious question and then prompted him: ‘How did she know what to say? How could she have used the exact words that every law school scholar learns?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said sombrely. This business, she thought, was troubling him. He was worried about the implications to his widespread clan, the O’Lochlainns.
‘I do,’ she said robustly. ‘I suspect that she got the procedure from Fergus MacClancy.’
‘But could he …? Fergus MacClancy? Was he …?’ Ardal stopped and looked at her. The picture of Fergus MacClancy, once the sharp-witted Brehon of Corcomroe, but now reduced to a doddering old man was before both of their eyes. Mara, however, shook her head.
‘I thought like you, initially. I discounted Fergus. But then where else had she got that information? Where, on earth, I said to myself, had Clodagh got the idea to leave two ewes and a kneading trough? It was almost word for word what was given as an example in a law case heard by the legendary female Brehon, Brig, when she scolded a young male judge because he had refused a woman’s case on the grounds that she had not obeyed instructions that were intended for men, that she had brought ewes instead of horses, and a kneading trough for bread-making instead of a valuable weapon or sword. And then, of course, I realized that Fergus, although he might be vague and hesitant about something that he had heard three minutes previously, has an amazingly good memory for the laws that he had learned so thoroughly at his father’s law school seventy years ago. Fergus told her what to do; that was obvious to me then. It was obvious that she had gone to see him before the time when she asked you to accompany her to verify whether there really was, as her cousins stated, a will in their favour.’
Mara stopped there. She did not want to share her thoughts any further, but she knew that it had crossed her mind on that day that Clodagh, paying a visit to the senile Brehon, had taken the opportunity, perhaps sending him out of the room on some errand, to steal the will giving her father’s property to be divided amongst her four cousins. That there had been such a will, she did not doubt. The brothers had an honest air. They were kind people, but they were unlikely to have gone to that much trouble over Danu’s land and person without the bribe of some sort of return. And, of course, Fergus, ten years ago, had been perfectly capable of drawing it up and suggesting, as she would have done herself, that it would be safer locked away in his chest than taken back into an overcrowded cottage.
Aloud, she said to him, ‘I had to give a verdict based on facts, rather than on surmise.’
‘And now you’re worrying about whether that judgement led to murder,’ he said.
‘I am,’ she said briefly and then said no more. Hers was the responsibility. This, after all, was her profession, her task in life. It brought her many joys, was interesting and challenging and she would not change places with anyone else in the world. This murder had to be solved, the culprit named in public at Poulnabrone and the fine paid. After that, life in the kingdom of the Burren could settle down again to its normal easy rhythm. But until then, she could spare no one in her efforts to seek the truth. She decided to go back to questioning him.
‘You’ve met Clodagh, of course, Ardal,’ she said in a conversational tone. ‘How would you have estimated her, bodily and mentally?’
He looked a little startled at the question, but after a minute of self-communion, decided to answer it. ‘Bodily, she was a strong, active woman,’ he said. ‘And, mentally …’ He paused and then, unexpectedly he smiled. ‘You, of course, were lucky, Brehon,’ he said. ‘You were born the daughter of a man who fostered your brains, gave you opportunities to shin
e, to develop. Perhaps not all women are equally lucky.’
‘And morally?’
‘That’s certainly not something that I could judge,’ he said stiffly.
‘I see,’ said Mara. She would question him no more. A picture of the dead woman had risen in her mind. Clodagh O’Lochlainn had been strong, active and with brains. She had, probably in a matter of minutes, assimilated enough law from poor old bemused Fergus in order to see her successfully through a complex legal procedure, and that seemed to show her capabilities.
What had her life been like with nothing to do, married to a man whom she despised, a man that spent most of his time on the mountain with his beloved sheep, even slept up there?
And had she received any legal information from Fergus that would have enabled her to change that life?
Cormac’s dog was unusually quiet when Mara entered the steward’s room. He was lying on the floor, stretched out, with an ecstatic appearance on his hairy face as Aengus gently scratched under his whiskery chin.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Brehon, I’ll go and see about a few tasks,’ said the steward and with a quick glance around to make sure that there were still plenty of refreshments available, he slipped out. Fachtnan vacated the chair next to Aengus and Mara sat down, avoiding the dog’s gaze in case he felt bound to celebrate her arrival.
‘How are you, Aengus?’ she asked.
‘I’m very sad, Brehon,’ he said and tears came again to his red-rimmed eyes.
It could be true, she thought. Probably he was quite shocked that someone, who had been so very much alive, was now dead – perhaps his tears were for her, rather than for himself. The chances were, though, that Aengus wept because he thought that it was expected of him. He could not truly miss a woman who had made him a laughing stock in the market places.
‘When did you see her last?’ asked Mara. There was, she recognised, a slightly crisp note in her voice and he responded to it, wiping his eyes on what looked like one of the law school’s well-laundered, snowy white, linen handkerchiefs, probably belonging to Cael, and then sitting up very straight, plaiting his fingers nervously.
A Fatal Inheritance Page 6
