Deed of Murder

by Cora Harrison

  Ulick smiled gently at her. ‘I think I remember it, dear girl. How does it go? “There are three improprieties of one who is a Fili: to claim as their own work, what the Gods have done through them; to demand gain or pleasure as a servant of the Mighty Ones; to allow themselves to be kept by labour that is not their own.” Yes, no man should claim that God is working through him, just in order to allow themselves to be kept by a labour that is not their own, you would agree, my lord bishop,’ he said to Turlough’s cousin, who was busy asking a servant for more wine, but who had caught the word ‘God’ and nodded gravely at Ulick.

  ‘He agrees,’ said Ulick enthusiastically. ‘How wonderful to be on good terms with the church! I had been afraid that the little affair of having five wives had earned me the disapproval of Rome.’

  ‘I meant,’ said Fiona flushing slightly, ‘that Seamus is right in wishing to wait for inspiration – from God, perhaps.’

  ‘My dear child,’ said Ulick smiling at her benignly, ‘I know full well what you meant, and don’t think that I am unsympathetic. I remember well how it felt to be young . . .’

  ‘“There are three qualifications for poetry”,’ interrupted Fiona. ‘“These are: endowment of genius; judgement from experience; happiness of mind.” That’s from Triad four hundred and seventy-eight.’

  That’s not correct, thought Mara, that’s the wrong Triad; but she said nothing. Nuala had asked Seamus MacCraith a question about the years of study for qualification as a poet and Mara decided to keep Ulick’s attention on herself. There was something that she was curious about, in any case.

  ‘You know a lot of law, Ulick, don’t you?’ she asked, taking a sip from her glass and eyeing him over the top of it. ‘How does that come about?’

  ‘I’m a magpie, my dear Brehon,’ he replied. ‘A mere magpie, picking up little nuggets of shining bright knowledge here and there.’ He tasted his wine, taking one fastidious sip, then drank the whole glass down and turned to look for a servant to refill it.

  ‘And yet, you remember, even more correctly than my scholars usually do, the exact number of an obscure triad. I feel that you must have studied the law at some stage in your life.’ She made the comment looking very straight at him.

  He had been stirring his food with a fork and had just speared a piece of meat, but at her words he dropped the fork and allowed it to remain on the floor. He bore the look of a man who is thinking hard, turning various answers over in his head.

  ‘Study the law, I?’ he prevaricated.

  ‘That’s what it seems like,’ she said firmly, making a signal to a servant to pick up the fork. These forks were very precious to her. They had been brought from Rome by her father many years ago and Turlough had told her that in the whole of Ireland he had never seen such things – not even the Great Earl used forks.

  Ulick gave a light laugh. ‘Well, I did think of studying law, took quite an interest in it, but that was before my two brothers died and the clan decided that I would make a good tánaiste – heir to the chiefdom of Clanrickard,’ he said lightly.

  ‘So you probably know a lot about the law – the law of contracts – you would have studied that and known that unless the document can be produced, a deed is invalid.’ Mara wondered whether she was wise in saying this, but she was interested to see his reaction. For the moment, she decided to reserve the knowledge that the blow to Eamon’s throat, on the exact vulnerable spot where the thyroid was located, appeared to show either medical or legal knowledge.

  She saw no reaction, though; he was busy calling out to Turlough. ‘My lord, a toast,’ he called, and now he was on his feet. ‘A toast for the wolf – may he long provide good sport for kings – and warm cloaks for the king’s followers!’

  There was a great laugh at that. Turlough’s face was alight with fun and good humour. Ulick was a great friend as well as companion of arms. Mara turned towards Donán, Turlough’s rather unprepossessing son-in-law. He was always a man to take offence easily so she racked her brains for a pleasant subject of conversation. There were so many things that one could not mention to him. Certainly not his castle at Nenagh, which had been seized several years ago by the Great Earl and, because of that occurrence, had forced Donán to rely on his father-in-law’s charity. Mara thought about asking about his children, but then decided that might remind him how his sons’ inheritance was lost. That subject of conversation would not be wise, so eventually she decided to choose a neutral subject and so she discoursed on hunting dogs. That, however, only made Donán observe in a disagreeable manner that he, personally, could not afford to keep a wolfhound. Mara looked in despair at Nuala, on his other side. Seamus MacCraith was now wholly occupied with Fiona so Nuala responded bravely by talking to Donán. He turned out to suffer from rheumatism and he had tried every remedy that Nuala could suggest.

  ‘Well, I’m going to attempt to make a new medicine for rheumatism, and I’ll try it out on you,’ said Nuala good-humouredly. She went on to describe some herbal remedy in her grandfather’s medical notes, which she had now discovered grew up beside the flax garden.

  ‘I’ve never seen it anywhere before,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s called bogbean plant. Grandfather had drawn a picture of it. I thought I might have to go to a bog for it, but I found it up in the flax garden, just by the pond that they use for rotting the flax fibres.’

  Donán, surprisingly, was quite enthusiastic about this plant. It appeared that he suffered a lot from his rheumatism, which he attributed to playing too much hurling in his youth. He knew the spot that she mentioned and even offered to accompany her on an expedition some time to dig up some of the roots.

  ‘The children would enjoy it,’ he said. ‘I would like my youngest boy to be interested in becoming a physician. Perhaps when he is a little older you might take him on as a pupil – he is only six now. Perhaps I myself would have been happier with a profession like that. I hear that you are going to start a school for medicine at Rathborney when you qualify next year. That would be just right for him as he will be seven by then and seven is the best age, I’ve heard, for starting on a profession.’

  ‘What about your wife? Would she mind parting with her youngest boy?’ Nuala gave a glance at Ragnelt, that silent, colourless woman who sat beside the Bishop of Kilfenora. Mara was surprised that Nuala even knew where to look. Ragnelt O’Kennedy, the daughter of the king, was one of the most self-effacing women that Mara had ever known. She always took the seat furthest from the fire, always spoke in a shy undertone, always kept her eyes fixed on the floor, or on her plate, or on the sewing, with which she was eternally occupied. Mara sometimes wondered whether her big, burly husband, with his hurling player frame and his loud voice was unkind to Ragnelt, but Turlough thought that they got on quite well together. He himself was usually a little impatient with this silent, shy girl and preferred his other two daughters, though he saw less of them as their marriages were with Scottish chieftains.

  Now another round of dishes was being brought in and placed on the table. It was a splendid feast and it looked as though it would go on forever. More wine was carried in. Fiona, Mara was glad to see, had placed a delicate hand over her glass when Seamus MacCraith had tried to add some more from a brimming flagon. Nuala drank water only and was deep in conversation about her proposed medical school with Donán.

  ‘You’re neglecting me, my dear Brehon,’ complained Ulick.

  Mara turned to him with a smile. She was not fond of the man, but Turlough was, and for his sake she made an effort to be friendly.

  ‘Nuala seems to have got her first pupil for her medical school,’ she said. ‘Donán is talking about sending his youngest son to her when she qualifies and takes possession of her property at Rathborney.’

  ‘She was a lucky girl to get that wonderful piece of property left to her,’ said Ulick, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Nuala. ‘A very rich girl, indeed, isn’t she, once she gets possession of that magnificent house and all the lands at Ra
thborney? I presume that will happen as soon as she takes a husband. Do you agree with me, my dear Brehon, that an older husband is a very good thing for a young girl in possession of a large estate like Rathborney?’

  ‘I doubt her guardian, Ardal O’Lochlainn, would give his permission for Nuala to be your sixth wife, if that’s what you are planning, Ulick,’ said Mara in her firmest manner. ‘And even if you did succeed in winning his consent, I don’t think that you would get Nuala to agree.’

  ‘Well, one feels that she is wasting her time with that arrogant young poet. And as for your scholar Fachtnan, well, that’s a waste of time, also. Where is the boy, by the way? I haven’t seen him since last night. Now, my dear Brehon, tell me all about the other young man, what was his name? The young lawyer. It was he that was killed in the flax garden, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You will excuse me, Ulick,’ said Mara. ‘My lord does not know of this yet, so I don’t want to discuss it now. I will be obliged if you don’t mention it until I get a chance to talk with him.’

  But perhaps Turlough did know. Ulick chattered continuously. It would be unlike him to keep the news of a dead body on the side of the mountain to himself. And yet, Mara consoled herself, the pace of the men stumbling after the fleet-footed wolfhounds would have been too fast to allow for the sort of leisurely gossip that Ulick indulged in. Turlough would have talked of nothing but the sport and his cousin Teige would have been the same.

  As soon as the meal was over she would have to take Turlough aside and tell him about the untimely death of Eamon, scholar of Cahermacnaghten law school, eldest son of the late Brehon of Cloyne, a man destined for the highest echelons of the lawyer’s profession. And also that a deed for the lease of the flax garden, drawn up by his wife, Mara, Brehon of the Burren, was, as far as she could tell, now missing, and if not found would be null and void.

  But that could wait. Now, she decided, was the time to gain information about one of the key players in the tragedy that occurred on this sunny morning in April.

  ‘I can never remember,’ said Mara, during one of those sudden silences into which even the most convivial of dinner parties were liable to fall, ‘what exact relationship the O’Brien of Arra bears to you, my lord.’ She addressed her question to Turlough and sat back to listen to his answer.

  As she had guessed there was a huge pile of genealogical material poured out, supplemented with Teige O’Brien’s memories, contradicted and argued with, not just by Turlough and Conor, but also Turlough’s son-in-law, Donán O’ Kennedy, whose family had, up to about twenty years ago, lived within ten miles of O’Brien of Arra’s territory and who was distantly related to the man himself. A few scurrilous stories were resurrected and laughed over, but nothing that gave her a picture of the man. He was well connected and he was rich, owning vast tracts of land ranging from estates south of the river Shannon, in the county of Limerick, to others deep into Ui Maine and even including the little gem, the flax garden, in the centre of the Burren.

  Mara gave up listening. There was no help for it. She would have to go to see Brian Ruadh, the O’Brien of Arra himself. Moylan and Aidan were too young and not responsible enough to send them across the Shannon. In any case, she would not be sure of their judgement. This was a task that she could have entrusted to Fachtnan if she had not feared that he was already involved.

  And where was Fachtnan? Mara was used to boys and their moods, but Fachtnan had now been missing for nearly twenty-four hours. Her eyes went to Fiona. Seamus MacCraith was reciting one of his poems to her – something that sounded rather wonderful about a woodland scene in the early dawn. However, Fiona was not looking at him, but listening intently to the conversation about O’Brien of Arra. Perhaps the visit to Arra last night had engaged her interest. Mara turned back to her neighbour.

  ‘What sort of man is he, really?’ That was one advantage of having Ulick Burke on her right-hand side. One could always rely on his love of gossip for a quick sketch of any personality.

  ‘O’Brien of Arra? Harmless!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Poor fellow! No confidence in himself. Turlough doesn’t like him, but there’s no harm in the man. Just finds it hard to take a joke.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Turlough like him?’ queried Mara. ‘She had noticed that O‘Brien of Arra was not on the list of guests invited for this late ceremonial christening of their son, but she had not thought to enquire. There were so many O’Briens, so many complications of relationships. She had never fathomed them all. It was interesting, she thought, how little time she and Turlough had to talk to each other, although they had been married for eighteen months.

  Of course, it was not surprising that they had so little time. Turlough was Lord of three kingdoms. As well as his normal duties, he had been at war, on and off, during the recent years, with the Earl of Kildare who was backed by the might of England and had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland by the new young king of that country, young Henry VIII. She was Brehon of the Burren, responsible for all the legal affairs of that kingdom, teacher to a school of law students, farm owner, mistress of two households, and mother of an enchanting eleven-month-old boy, son of a king. When their busy lives allowed them to come together they met as lovers, as parents, or even as King and Brehon. There seemed little time for idle gossip. Even now she was anxiously looking forward to getting him on his own and consulting him about their baby son, Cormac. Cliona’s desire to get back to her own house and her own farm was understandable, but how would Cormac fare without her? Physically he had done very well after his premature birth and his bad start to life. He and little Art, Cliona’s son, were inseparable – almost like two puppies in a litter as they rolled on the floor together. Still, this was a decision to be postponed until the murder of the young lawyer was solved.

  ‘Donán doesn’t seem to like O’Brien of Arra much either,’ she said idly, noting the sour expression on Turlough’s son-in-law’s face as he listened to the gossip. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, Donán, poor fellow, is always like that – always got something to complain about. I suppose he doesn’t like O’Brien of Arra because when there was the attack on the castle at Nenagh, the Kennedys felt that Arra should have come to the rescue.’

  ‘He must have been only a child then,’ said Mara, watching the sullen face of her husband’s son-in-law.

  ‘These things go deep,’ said Ulick shaking his head. ‘You’d be surprised how long these matters remain. Look at my own family. Clanwilliam are the bitter enemies of Clanrickard and yet we all stemmed from the same father originally – two brothers, Richard and William. They went their separate ways and never since have the two branches had a civil word for each other. I could tell you some stories . . .’

  Please don’t, thought Mara, I’ve probably heard them all before, but there was no stopping Ulick when he was in full flow so she half listened and half pondered on her problems. What was she going to do about her baby? She disliked the idea of allowing him to be fostered. Turlough’s daughter, Ragnelt, had not the look of a happy woman; neither had her sister-in-law Ellice, the wife of Turlough’s eldest son and heir. Both women bore a discontented, bored look. Both had a family of children, both had all their children placed in foster homes, as was the custom in the family. Turlough himself had been fostered. He and his cousin Teige O’Brien had been brought up together and they were as close, or even closer than brothers. Both of them were happy men, she decided, amiable men, happy in their lives. Fosterage had done them no harm. It might be good for the children, but bad for their mothers, thought Mara, her mind still on her own problems, and she was startled to hear them echoed by Ulick.

  ‘Of course, Donán Kennedy was fostered by Ormond, which just goes to show how these English-born earls have no honour. Ormond did nothing to stop the Great Earl, his own brother-in-law, from attacking the Kennedy stronghold at Nenagh Castle! But I think that O’Brien of Arra was the one that the Kennedys resented. They didn’t really expect Ormond to quarrel with the Great Earl.’
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  ‘What about Turlough? Turlough must have been king, then. Does he resent Turlough for not coming to his aid?’ Mara gave Ulick her full attention.

  ‘Oh, no, he wouldn’t do that. Why should he have married Turlough’s daughter if he felt like that?’

  Because it was a very good match for a man who had been dispossessed of much of his estates, thought Mara, but she said nothing. Her husband had a grown family when they married, and even before marriage she had decided that she had no responsibility towards these young men and women – unless any breach of the law occurred in the kingdom of the Burren, of course.

  ‘No, no, no, Donán wouldn’t bear Turlough a grudge. Good fellow, Donán,’ Ulick assured her. ‘Devoted to Turlough.’ He turned away from her and leaned across the table, silencing Conor who was just explaining about his treatment for the wasting sickness that he had suffered from a year ago.

  ‘Turlough,’ he called, ‘don’t let this pleasant company dissolve. What about your annual visit to Aran? Why don’t we make up a party now and take off in the middle of the week? The weather is good. We’ll have a calm crossing. What do you say, Donán? I know that you have been telling me how much you hate sea journeys and how much you dislike Aran, but I don’t think that I believe you. A fine young man like yourself. You should enjoy these expeditions. You’ll come, won’t you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind being cold, I don’t mind being wet, I don’t mind being sick, I don’t mind being in danger of my life. It’s just all these things coming together that put me off going to Aran,’ returned Donán.

  That’s rather witty from Donán, thought Mara, feeling amused. It was more like something she’d expect from Ulick than from that gloomy and rather sullen young man.

  ‘Count me out,’ said Teige bluntly. ‘I’ve no love for Aran and who knows when a storm might blow up and we would be stuck there for a week before we could chance the return journey. Worst sea in the world; a Spanish sailor told me that.’