She hesitated and then said in a rush of words, ‘I must tell you the whole truth. I want to get back to my own place because I am thinking of getting married again.’
‘What! Well, the king will be pleased to hear that. Who is the lucky man?’
‘He’s another O’Connor, but from a different clan, from Corcomroe, not far from here. He’s a fisherman from Doolin. He has his own boat. His name is Setanta. Cumhal knows him. He’ll tell you all about him. Brigid buys fish from him. That’s how I got to know him; met him often in the kitchen in Cahermacnaghten.’ The sentences came out jerkily from Cliona and she watched Mara carefully.
‘I know who you mean!’ Mara felt very relieved. Setanta O’Connor had been bringing fish to the law school at Cahermacnaghten on Fridays since he was a boy of ten years old, or even less. He had been a sensible, grown-up young man even then, competently driving a donkey and cart and conscientiously refusing invitations from her boys to join in a game of hurling, explaining that he had to deliver his fish quickly so that it was nice and fresh.
‘Setanta O’Connor is lovely. I’m so happy for you both,’ she continued. For a moment, after the first exclamation of pleasure, but before the name was mentioned, she had begun to worry a little. She had been completely happy with Cliona’s care of her son, but she wasn’t sure about a new man in the household. Would he take to the two babies, neither of whom was his? But Setanta – well, that was different. She knew him well. He would make a wonderful foster father.
‘And about the fee—’ started Cliona, but Mara interrupted her, laughing gaily.
‘I’ll draw up the deed, Cliona, don’t worry about that, but I’ll just tell you now that the usual fee for the son of a king is fifteen ounces of silver, or fifteen cows. It can be either – whatever suits you.’
‘I don’t want a fee. I will foster him for love,’ said Cliona, ‘but I want to ask a favour of you. I want Art to have an education just like Cormac. Do you think it is possible? It would be like a dream coming true for me to have my son a lawyer. I’m teaching myself to read so that I can teach them once they learn to talk. Look!’ She crossed over to the chest and took out some scraps of vellum and Mara could see lots of three-letter words neatly written on the old scraps. ‘Brigid gave me these – you don’t mind, do you? She’s been teaching me. She said you taught her when you were a little girl – you were only three years old, that’s what Brigid told me. She said that you were the cleverest child in the world.’
Mara laughed. ‘Don’t believe everything that Brigid tells you,’ she warned. ‘She brought me up, you know. She’s more like a mother to me than anything else.’ She looked carefully at Cliona. She was an intelligent woman and this had best be said now, rather than allow false hopes to build to great heights.
‘Cliona,’ she said carefully, ‘I will start both Art and Cormac off in the law school when they are five years old, but nothing is sure so far as children are concerned. It’s possible that neither boy will be of the right material. The training is long and arduous and they need to have perseverance, brains and a very, very good memory. My own daughter Sorcha did not have any interest in the law and I didn’t force her. The same thing will apply to Cormac and Art; if they enjoy the work and prove to have an aptitude for it, then well and good, but if not, we will be just beating our heads against a stone wall. In fact,’ she ended lightly, ‘from what I see of Cormac I imagine that he will want to be a hurling player.’
Cliona laughed also. ‘And Art will be a wrestler,’ she said, trying to match Mara’s light tone, but her eyes were shining with excitement. She was unable to keep still, but busied herself around the room, straightening cushions, getting nightshirts out from a chest and putting them to warm in front of the glowing fire.
‘I’d better go now and let you put them to bed,’ said Mara rising to her feet, but wishing that she could be the one to undress her son, give him his bath and put him to bed. It was not practical, though. She was Brehon of the Burren, wife of the king, hostess at Ballinalacken castle. She had a husband to organize for this sudden and unexpected trip to Aran, guests to speed on their way, and, foremost in her mind, a murder to solve.
‘There’s Setanta now. I know his footstep.’ Cliona rushed to the door, but closed it behind her. No doubt she wanted to tell the good news in privacy. Mara waited, listening to the soft breathing of the two sleeping children.
They were before her in less than three minutes, both glowing with happiness. Mara smiled on them, gave her best wishes for their future happiness, but quickly went to the matter that was worrying her.
‘I would like you to reconsider about the fosterage fee,’ she said carefully, addressing her remarks to Setanta as well as to Cliona. ‘It will be a sum of fifteen ounces of silver as Cormac is the son of a king – or else it could be fifteen cows.’
‘Cows would be no good to me. I prefer the fish – they feed themselves, physic themselves, and find their own pastures,’ said Setanta firmly.
‘But what about the silver? What about a new boat?’ asked Mara.
Setanta laughed. ‘I have a boat that’s a match to any boat in the sea,’ he boasted. ‘My grandfather made it, cut the hazel rods, covered it with the best leather. My father greased it three times every year and I do the same. That boat can fly across the water with only one man rowing – not like those English boats.’ He nodded contemptuously towards the window. ‘No, let Cliona try to make a lawyer out of little Art and that will be fee enough for us.’
Twelve
Bretha Nemed Déidenach
(Last Laws for Noble People)
Every Brehon needs to have great knowledge. He must understand all ways of life in the kingdom that he presides over – knowledge of all occupations, trades and of all professions must be his.
Mesbretha (estimation judgements):
Every judge should be able to estimate at a glance the value of produce or artefacts. He should know:
Value of the cloth on the loom
Value of the lambs on the mountain
Value of a breeding cow
Value of the crop in the field
Value of the leather on a shoemaker’s last
Value of a woman’s embroidery needle
Value of a heap of scutched flax
When Mara and Fiona arrived at the law school on Monday morning, the boys were already there at their desks, shining with soap and enthusiasm. They rose to their feet politely to welcome Mara, but the excitement was so evident that instead of the customary morning greetings she just smiled and said, ‘Well?’
‘Well . . .’ said Moylan teasingly as he slid along the second bench to make room for Fiona. ‘Well . . . we had an interesting time yesterday afternoon.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ Mara gave him an appreciative smile. She was glad that Fiona had not been left to sit on her own on the front bench, where she normally sat between Fachtnan and Eamon. ‘Come on, Moylan, tell me,’ she said with feigned impatience.
‘There was a fight,’ said Moylan. ‘He, Eamon, had been in a fight. He was hit over the head.’
‘We found a stick,’ supplemented Aidan.
‘What do you mean “we”? I found it,’ said Hugh.
‘That’s right.’ Moylan took the matter back into his own hands. ‘Hugh found it. And very well done to him,’ he added in a patronizing manner.
Mara concealed a smile. Moylan seemed to be taking over the role of senior scholar at the law school. Fachtnan would have said something like that, though without the condescending overtones. Fachtnan’s own learning difficulties always made him very sensitive to Hugh’s problems.
‘We’ve marked the spot, Brehon,’ said Shane. ‘When you see it you’ll understand why. You tell her, Moylan.’
‘There must have been a fight,’ said Moylan wisely. ‘We could see lots of skids . . .’
‘On the patch of grass there.’
‘And horseshoe prints.’
‘The horse must have got worried . . .’
‘And then bolted . . .’
‘Found his way back to the stable . . .’
‘There was a bit of blood on the stick . . .’
‘And it was cracked . . .’
‘Here it is, Brehon.’ Moylan rushed over to the large wooden press containing the law books and documents and took from on top of it a stout, wooden stick.
‘Heavy,’ he said, balancing it between his hands and then placing it carefully on the empty front desk.
Mara bent over it. It was a typical stick – every farmer of the kingdom had a cudgel like that made from well-seasoned ash and tipped with iron. Few people in the community left home without something like this. It could be used to guide the footsteps over the uneven stone of the fields, to help in the scaling of high ground or mountain pastures, to herd the cattle or the sheep, or to guard against attack from a bull.
‘Here’s the blood,’ said Moylan, pointing to the iron tip.
‘There was not much blood on the tip even when I found it,’ said Hugh taking ownership of his find. ‘But look, Brehon, you can see that there had been some. Look how it has seeped into the ash.’
‘We should have brought Nuala,’ said Fiona. ‘She could examine the stick and say whether she thought that the wound was made by it.’
‘You’re right,’ said Mara. ‘Aidan, would you go and fetch her. You and Fiona,’ she amended. A ride in Aidan’s cheerful company would be good for the rather silent and still pale Fiona. ‘Also, give this note to my lord, the king.’ She took a scrap of vellum from her own desk and scribbled a quick note to Turlough asking him to send a man to guide O’Brien of Arra to the flax garden after his midday meal at Ballinalacken. ‘We’ll take some food. It’s fine and dry and we can have an outdoor meal and stay there. We’ll have the auction at two o’clock. Shane, would you go and ask Brigid about the food, Moylan would you go and tell Muiris O’Hynes about the auction.’ She pondered for a moment about whether she had an obligation to let the rest of the kingdom know about this auction, but decided that it was unnecessary. She had done her legal duty before the first auction – had advertised it in the kingdom’s judgement place at the ancient dolmen of Poulnabrone, had requested that time and place would be given at every Mass in every church on the Burren. Only two people had bid and the matter was now between these two.
‘There is one more thing, Brehon, before we all fly off, like angels, on different errands,’ said Shane with a humorous quirk to his mouth.
‘You got that bit about angels being messengers from the sermon two weeks ago,’ accused Moylan.
‘I’m glad you all listen so well in church,’ said Mara, slightly guilty as she realized that she had not heard that particular sermon. She usually spent that time in church planning for the week ahead. On that particular Sunday, she remembered, she had been going through the arrangements for the flax garden auction, mentally checking through the deed that she needed to draw up with reference to the O’Brien of Arra marriage settlement deed, dating from her father’s early days as a Brehon. ‘What was it that you wanted to tell me, Shane?’ she said aloud.
‘I just wanted to show you something,’ said Shane, drawing his pen case out from the satchel beside him. It was a beautiful case, made from engraved leather. Shane’s father had given it to him as a present last summer when Shane had received a very high mark at his end of year examination. Shane was very proud of it and kept it beautifully polished and his carefully trimmed quill pens neatly arranged according to size within it. Now, as he took the lid off, Mara could see that there were no pens there, just a small heap of ash.
‘I took it as I was afraid that it might blow away before you had a chance to see it, Brehon. There’s more there, but I wanted to show you this.’ He pointed and Mara lifted the case carefully and took it to the light of the window.
Then she could see what Shane’s sharp eyes had spotted. As almost always happened when something is burned, a scrap of vellum had escaped the flames. And this scrap, by a miracle, contained a whole word: aithech – rent-payer. Mara looked up and around at the smiling faces of her boys.
‘The deed was burned!’ she said with certainty. ‘This certainly changes matters. It begins to look . . .’
‘Let me make the case, Brehon!’ exclaimed Moylan. ‘Unless you’d rather do it, Fiona, would you?’
Fiona shook her head humorously. ‘No, go on, Moylan. You’re bursting with it, I can see.’
Moylan cast a quick, defiant look at his juniors and took centre stage, standing by the fireplace and arranging an imaginary gown on his shoulders.
‘Let me make the case for the murder of Eamon the Aigne from Cahermacnaghten law school. Eamon was murdered by . . . let us call him the unknown man —’
‘Or woman,’ interrupted Fiona. The colour had come back to her face and somehow she seemed to be more of her old self. Mara wondered whether Fiona had felt under suspicion and now had begun to think that the affair had been concerned with the deed for the flax garden.
‘Let me refer to him or her as the unknown,’ Moylan rushed on before any more interruptions occurred, ‘who met Eamon, whether by appointment or by chance, and wrestled with him, trying to take away the deed before it could be delivered to the safe-keeping of the successful bidder, a man called Muiris O’Hynes.
‘According to my junior friend, here, young Shane –’ Moylan bowed, almost overbalanced, straightened himself abruptly and glared at Aidan who had given a snort – ‘according to my friend, there were two or three droppings on one spot which we think showed that the horse stood for some time while the murdered man and the unknown stood and talked.’
‘Only one horse, we thought, Brehon,’ interrupted Aidan. ‘And that points to someone from the flax garden.’
‘Am I making this case or is it you?’ Moylan glared at his friend and added with heavy sarcasm, ‘Of course, if you think that you can . . .’
‘And then they struggled,’ said Shane rapidly. ‘You will see for yourself, Brehon.’
‘So it seems to me,’ said Moylan, hooking his thumbs under his armpits and inflating his chest, ‘that a struggle took place, resulting in a fatal blow by the unknown and then the deed was burned and the body tumbled down the hill. Gentlemen – and ladies, of course – I make the case that this unlawful killing of Eamon the lawyer was committed by one or both of the two people who benefited from the deed being seized and then destroyed. And here in the privacy of the schoolhouse with the door well guarded by our faithful dog, Bran, I put forward the names of either Cathal O’Halloran, the flax manager, or of his son, Owney.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. It was an obvious solution, but somehow she felt vaguely dissatisfied with it. There was one obvious flaw, but, as she could see by Shane’s eager face that he had spotted it, she said nothing but just smiled encouragement at him.
‘I hear what my learned friend has to say, but would put forward the objection that he has not accounted for Eamon the lawyer’s presence at the flax garden in the morning following his moonlit trip to O’Brien of Arra.’ The words burst from Shane’s lips.
Fiona flushed uncomfortably, but said coolly, ‘I’ve already told you that he went north when we left Arra.’
‘Instead of turning south and then crossing at O’Briensbridge; but that still doesn’t explain why he did that. You said yourself that you quarrelled over his decision so that makes it even more surprising that he didn’t give you a reason since he and you were such great friends.’ Shane’s voice was bland, and without the underlying note of innuendo which Moylan and Aidan would probably have inserted. He was young for his age in some ways, thought Mara, but his brain was sharp and he had put his finger on the most puzzling aspect of the matter.
‘You are absolutely sure, Fiona, that he gave no reason to go north, did he?’ asked Moylan, a note of disappointment in his voice.
Fiona shook her head. Her face had gone pale again and Mara intervened quickly.
‘I think that you made your
case well, Moylan, and that the next step for us is to talk to Nuala and then we will make our way up to the flax gardens. So, Aidan and Fiona, will you fetch her now and don’t forget my note to the king, Aidan.’ The others were on their feet by now and she allowed them to go without further instructions. Regardless of the investigation into the murder, the first consideration now had to be the auction. No doubt the result would be the same. Muiris O’Hynes was considered to be a wealthy man and Cathal, no matter how hard he tried, was unlikely to be able to raise more than the two ounces of silver originally offered. Mara sighed, took a clean sheet of vellum from the wooden press, trimmed her pen with her knife, dipped it into the ink pot and began to write out a new deed of contract.
What would Cathal, his family, and his clan who depended upon him, do if Muiris won the contract? Go back to scratching a living from the salt marshes of his homeland? A place where the grass itself could be poisonous to the cattle that munched it. All those years of gaining knowledge and expertise in the growing of flax, the spinning of the fibres, the weaving, the dyeing – all wasted effort. Would a man kill to avoid all of this being taken from him?
Mara was forced to say yes to her own question.
Thirteen
Berrad Airechta
(Summary of Court Procedure)
An adult son whose father is still alive usually has no legal capacity of his own. However, he can annul any contracts of his father that would damage or diminish his future inheritance, as long as he fulfils his duties as a son (i.e. doesn’t leave the land of his father without being given leave, obeys his orders, etc.)
‘That stick has blood on it – blood soaked into it,’ said Nuala sharply, eyeing it as Hugh held it under her nose.
‘That’s right.’ Hugh nodded happily. ‘So it’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?’
Nuala heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Don’t you boys ever listen,’ she said. ‘I told you. Eamon was killed by someone pressing on the thyroid cartilage. There was no blood – the fragile bones were cracked and the man died.’
Deed of Murder Page 12
