But why?
‘Would you like to see the place where I found the ash, Brehon, before it disappears?’ Shane broke into her thoughts and followed with a reminder of what Ardal O’Lochlainn had said about the wind from the west. She followed him and called to Nuala to join them. It would be better for the girl to avert her mind. Nothing could be done about Fachtnan until they were back at Cahermacnaghten and she could consult with her farm manager about the possibility of a search party. Fachtnan was unlikely to be anywhere on the Aillwee. It was a low mountain with quite a few shepherds’ and cattlemen’s huts. Already, many cows had been moved up there and the few pathways suitable for a horse would have been well trodden.
Shane had built a low wall around the ashes of the burned deed of contract. He had even roofed it in with some branches of thick, springy heather. Now that she was there he uncovered it carefully. Mara bunched up her gown to protect her knees from the sharp edges of the limestone and knelt down. Yes, there were some more unburned pieces of vellum.
‘Nuala,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Come and help. Your eyes are amazingly sharp. If we could find a date we would know that this year’s deed was burned here.’
Nuala joined her rapidly and they crowded around the little pile of burned ash and scraps of vellum.
‘Got it,’ said Fiona after a minute’s silence. ‘Look.’ She pointed a slender finger adorned with a silver ring. ‘Look, Brehon, there.’
Mara narrowed her eyes, but already Shane had shouted. ‘Got it. “XI”. That’s it, Brehon, that’s certain. It’s this year’s deed.’
‘The rest has been burned off,’ said Hugh.
‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve got what we need; you can see the space after the two numerals. It has to be eleven, that’s right, isn’t it, Brehon?’
‘No other possibility.’
‘Good old vellum.’
‘This proves that the murder is connected with the flax garden.’
The voices chattered on while Mara remained on her knees staring at the remains of the roman numerals which had been written on the top of the deed. Memory had swept over her and for a minute her feelings of desolation almost overwhelmed her. Suddenly, and she had not thought of this for years, she remembered teaching the child Fachtnan how to record numbers in Latin. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘the number five is written like a “V”.’ Carefully, she had arranged the chubby five fingers, moving the small thumb so that it and the forefinger made the letter. ‘And then you make a ten with all of your fingers, cross your wrists and you will see it looks just like an “X”.’ He had been such a sweet child, such a hard worker, always trying to remember things, grateful for her help, so intelligent and yet so handicapped by his bad memory. Could he really be dead?
And if so, was his murderer the same person who had crushed the throat of Eamon and cut short that young life?
Fourteen
Críth Gablach
(Ranks in Society)
Each kingdom has a Brehon to act as a representative of the king’s law and the king’s judgement.
Heptad 25
There are seven fees that are due to a Brehon:
The payment for attendance at a judgement place.
The payment for listening to witnesses.
The payment for accumulated wisdom.
The payment for knowledge of artefacts.
The payment for clear judgement.
The payment for responsibility.
The payment for legal language.
The bell had not yet sounded for vespers when Mara and her scholars descended into the flax garden. Nuala had wanted to go home and Mara suggested that she look for the young poet and accompany him back to Ballinalacken, whereupon Nuala instantly changed her mind and decided to accompany them to be a spectator at the auction. Mara had smiled at her decision. Obviously Nuala had no interest in the poet. Stop trying to play the matchmaker, she told herself. In any case, from what she had seen of Seamus MacCraith she doubted whether he was worthy of Nuala, or of Fiona, either.
The mountain today was no place for a dreaming poet. The flax garden was full of noise and, from the sounds to the south of the Aillwee Mountain, Mara guessed that the hunt was still in full progress. Perhaps Seamus MacCraith had decided to give composing a rest and had joined them. She hoped so, as she felt guilty about the poet’s isolation. If he joined the hunt it might take his mind off the lovely Fiona! Turlough, his son, his son-in-law and Ulick Burke – as well as the guards and men-at-arms, of course – were making enough noise for a hundred men.
When the sun began to set lower over the sea they would gather up their sticks and their dogs. Tired but happy, they would make their way back to Ballinalacken for their supper. It was an easy way of disposing of her guests, a day spent out in the mountains, though she suspected that the Aillwee Mountain would, by now, be denuded of wolves. Ardal O’Lochlainn was a careful and knowledgeable farmer and he would not be sending his lambs and their mothers up there unless he was fairly sure that there would be no threats to the flock.
The flax garden seemed to be full of tension when they arrived down. It was probably about half an hour before the time for the vespers bell to ring, Mara calculated, and the work was going on at a frantic rate. Thuds of wooden battens beating or scutching the flax came from the shed nearest to them and shuttles pinged violently from the weaving shed. Near to the dyeing vats Cathal and his son Owney were having a violent argument. ‘. . . always imagine you know best . . .’ were the only words that Mara could distinguish. She moved hastily in the other direction towards the spinning-wheel sheds. Gobnait, Cathal’s wife, was standing at the door shouting back in. She sounded incoherent with rage as she yelled, ‘I leave you for an hour and look at how little you have done. Nothing but gossip and slacking. Well, it’s your livelihood as well as mine. If you can’t do the work I can easily get those who can. There’s not a woman in Burren who couldn’t spin as well as you lot.’
Mara wondered briefly whether any of the women would have the courage to point out that Gobnait might not be still in the flax gardens by the next day, but they might. Muiris O’Hynes, if he was wise, would be likely to employ some of the experienced workers while he built up an expertise among his own people, but Cathal, his wife, Gobnait, and his son, Owney, would certainly not be one of those who would be retained. Muiris would want to stamp his own authority on the business, and he had spent long enough observing, at a safe distance, how that business was carried out. In any case, he would not want to employ Gobnait, who had a reputation of being a quarrelsome woman. Mara smiled to herself remembering Brigid’s words about Gobnait being just the sort to send a swarm of bees after anyone who displeased her.
And then her smile vanished and was replaced by a puzzled frown. Where was Muiris? By all accounts, he had spent the last few days here in the flax garden, so it was surprising that as the hour for the auction approached he would not be in evidence. Unobtrusively, she beckoned to Moylan and, when he came over, said quietly, ‘When you went to Muiris’s house today, who did you see?’
‘I saw his wife,’ said Moylan promptly. ‘And she told me that Muiris had already gone up to the flax garden. She said that he was carrying a satchel and she said it with a bit of a smile. I think that she was hinting that he brought a bag of silver with him. He’s supposed to have lots, you know,’ added Moylan. ‘He gets good prices for his leather at all the fairs. I’ve heard that he goes to Galway and sells it to English merchants there.’
‘I see.’ Mara nodded. She was not surprised at what Moylan said. She herself had guessed that Muiris was wealthy. A man like him, who had made his own wealth, always wanted to make more. Muiris was hugely ambitious for his children. His eldest son and daughter had both made good matches and both had been well endowed by him, but there were other sons and daughters coming to marriageable age and the flax garden was a good business opportunity for Muiris and his wife.
But where was Muiris now? Áine would be in his plans
. Husband and wife worked side by side in all the enterprises. She would know what he intended. Was he planning a dramatic late entrance, just as had happened the last time? There would be sense in it, if he could time it exactly. No doubt the price would be lower if Cathal and Muiris were not capping each other’s bets during the ten minutes that preceded the fall of the pin. Perhaps that was the meaning of the smile, which Moylan had interpreted as referring to the contents of the satchel.
There’s someone coming now, Brehon. I can hear the horse,’ said Moylan.
‘Good,’ said Mara walking over to the entrance into the flax garden where the rest of her scholars stood grouped and waiting for instructions.
‘O’Brien of Arra is coming, Brehon,’ said Hugh as she joined them.
‘Interesting what a view you can have from here, Brehon,’ said Shane. ‘Anyone from the flax garden could stand here and see all over the mountain, up as well as down.’
‘Which makes it all the more peculiar that none of them saw what happened to poor Eamon,’ put in Fiona and Mara nodded agreement. There was something very strange about the lack of knowledge shown by the flax workers.
‘I think I’ll wait here,’ she said. ‘The rest of you can go and find Cathal and tell him that the O’Brien of Arra will be here in a minute or two. We might as well get ready, and then the candle can be lit as soon as the bell from the abbey tolls.’
The sooner it’s all over, the better for all concerned, she thought, as she watched the horse with Brian Ruadh on its back make its slow way up the zigzag pathway. There was little doubt in her mind that Muiris could match and outmatch any silver that Cathal and Gobnait had been able to piece together. Even if they had frantically scoured every possible corner for resources they were unlikely to be able to win this auction. Perhaps that was why Gobnait had been missing from the spinning shed this morning. Perhaps she had gone to see relatives of hers near to Galway on a hunt for a loan.
‘Good day to you, Brehon,’ called Brian Ruadh. ‘That was a better path than I expected. I declare I don’t think that I’ve been here since I was a child.’
‘Yes, Cathal O’Halloran has looked after your property well. All is in good order. Perhaps after the auction we could have a look over it in the company of whoever wins the lease.’
‘Oh, are you expecting many bidders?’ Brian Ruadh’s face lit up with a touch of greedy anticipation.
‘No, only two bidders as far as I know. Would you like to tie up your horse here, next to ours?’ As she spoke, Mara scanned the horizon and looked back down the hill. Shane was right. From this position in the flax garden there was a great view of the Aillwee Mountain – even of the valley below, but there was no sign of Muiris O’Hynes anywhere. What had happened to the man?
The table, the chair, the stools, the benches were all in place when Mara accompanied the O’Brien of Arra into the shed. The candle was on the table, the pin and the tinder box lay beside it, but no mead, this time, Mara was pleased to see. She disliked the overly sweet honeyed taste of the stuff and, as it was highly alcoholic, thought her scholars were just as well without it. She took from her satchel the deed awaiting the insertion of the name of the successful bidder and the official measure. Carefully, she carried the candle to the light from the door, making sure that all saw her use the measure before inserting the pin an exact inch below the top. She stayed there for a moment inspecting the wax vigilantly, but this time, as far as she could see, there was no hard knot of tallow that would delay the length of time before the pin fell.
‘Ah, I remember this happening when I was a boy,’ said the O’Brien with a sigh of nostalgia. ‘The old ways are always the best ways.’ He gave another sigh, but no one agreed with him. Cathal and his wife stood like stone statues, gazing stolidly ahead, Owney prowled the shed, bending his head so that it did not crash against any of the low beams, exchanging an uneasy smile with Nuala who was pretending to examine the bales of linens. The law school scholars stood with solemn faces, each of them probably remembering that Eamon and Fachtnan had been there the last time that this ceremony was held.
There can only be a few minutes left for Muiris to arrive, thought Mara, as she waited with outward indifference. Her feeling for time was good, but even so she was taken aback by the summons to prayer. The wind must have turned to the west because the clang of the abbey bell for vespers was unexpectedly loud. Everyone jumped at the sound.
‘Close the door, will you, Shane. And Moylan, will you light the candle for us.’ Mara handed her eldest scholar her own tinder box. Let everything go according to the exact procedure laid down in the law document. Mara was determined that this auction would be conducted with dignity and authority.
This time the candle was of fine beeswax. The honeyed smell soon filled the shed and the candle burned steadily. It would burn to its allotted time; the pin would fall and the last bid would gain possession of this fertile flax garden and all its possessions for the year to come.
Cathal O’Halloran did not make his bid immediately as was his wont. This time he sat and waited, sat with furrowed brow, staring eyes and compressed lips, sat until he could bear the tension no longer and then, eventually, he snapped out the words,
‘Two ounces of silver.’
O’Brien of Arra looked disappointed, the scholars’ faces brightened; eventually something was happening. Owney, the heir to his father’s heritage of the salt marshes and to this prosperous flax garden, stopped his prowling and came to rest behind his father’s stool. Mara sat very still, very upright in her chair, her eyes fixed on the sharp bright flame of the candle and the translucent wax beneath it. O’Brien cleared his throat and looked hopefully at Cathal and then at the door, but nothing happened. Gobnait sat solidly, her face calm, her hands folded peacefully on her lap. She had the look of the one who had come to rest after the day’s work was done.
Only a narrow strip of unburned wax now remained above the shining pin. Everyone stared at it. It was a pity that the poet had not come, thought Mara. This scene in the half-dark of the storage shed might have given material to his quill. The immense shadows, the half-seen forms, the triangular flame . . .
And then, quite suddenly, there was a thud of running footsteps outside, a question shouted, and an answer given, the door wrenched open, sunlight pouring in, the slim young figure of Seamus MacCraith himself standing in the doorway.
‘Come quickly,’ he said. ‘There’s been a terrible accident.’
And at that very moment, as had happened before, the candle flared wildly sideways, the wax around the pin dissolved and as fast as he could utter the words, Cathal O’Halloran shouted the words: ‘Two ounces of silver.’
And then the pin dropped. The auction was over. Stiffly and awkwardly, Cathal held out his hand to the O’Brien for the traditional handshake and Brian Ruadh took it and held the hand for a moment, then dropping it as if he did not quite know what to do with it.
‘Who is it?’ Mara asked. Her heart thudded and then slowed down. Now I must be very calm and take charge, she told herself, though her first thought was that Fachtnan’s body had eventually been found.
‘I don’t know,’ wailed the poet. ‘I’ve never seen him in my life before.’
‘Not Fachtnan, my eldest scholar?’ It was an effort for Mara to force the words out, but they had to be said. Nuala’s face had gone as white as bleached linen so Mara knew that the girl’s thoughts had followed hers.
‘No, no,’ said Seamus MacCraith peevishly. ‘This is a middle-aged man.’
‘Alive?’ Automatically, Mara reached over and picked up the pin from the table feeling its point with one finger and then slotting it into the sleeve of her cloak.
‘I . . . I think so. He . . . he . . .’ His voice was hesitant and it trembled to a halt. Nuala grabbed him quickly by the arm as his colour ebbed away.
‘Here, Aidan,’ she shouted, ‘sit him down on the stool. Push his head down. Fiona, bring him around as fast as you can by any means. The
re’s probably someone bleeding badly out there. He’s the type to faint at the sight of blood. Bring him out as fast as you can once he’s back to his senses. I don’t want to waste any time with him. I’m going to check my medical bag. Get me some scraps of linen, Owney, long ones.’
‘Here you are, lad, tear that up.’ Cathal grabbed an unbaled length of linen and lobbed it at Owney.
‘I’ll get some water.’ Gobnait bustled off. ‘We’ll follow you with some men and a board to carry him back, Brehon.’ Suddenly the flax manager and his wife were back to their usual cordial selves – all tension had disappeared.
‘Give me a jug and I’ll slosh some water over the poet.’ Aidan was off to the well in a second and returned almost instantly holding the jug full of water over Seamus MacCraith’s pallid face. Fiona grabbed it from him and dipped her own linen handkerchief in it, patting the poet’s brow.
‘Come on,’ said Aidan impatiently. ‘He can walk. Nuala will be furious if we delay any longer. Grab his other arm, Hugh. Come on, Seamus, be a man and get marching.’
Out in the sunlight, one of the workers was standing holding Seamus MacCraith’s horse. Others were being organized into groups to carry a board, to carry water. Gobnait even had a ewer filled with her precious mead in one hand and a pewter goblet in the other. She thrust it at Moylan with whispered instructions and then retreated to the door of the spinning shed. Her face, under a conventional wide-eyed shocked expression, looked expansive and relieved. Whether this unknown man was merely injured or was dead, it probably would not matter much to Gobnait. Her family, relations and workers were probably all here and their livelihood for the year to come had just been assured.
Deed of Murder Page 14
