Deed of Murder

by Cora Harrison

  Not true, thought Mara. Many, many fishermen drowned every year. The Aran islands were full of widows and orphans. Still, she appreciated his spirit and hoped that her impulsive act had not taken him into a danger that he would normally have avoided. She gripped the wood of the board beneath her tightly and gazed steadily ahead.

  An enormous wave, taller than any tower house, was approaching. It was a giant wall of translucent water, glinting in the morning sunshine. And yet not a wall, more like a giant slab of glistening blue glass. The bottom of this monstrous body of water seemed to be about twenty foot thick, but it tapered upwards to a thin curl of creamy white.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Setanta. Incredibly, he was laughing.

  The wave slid under the tiny, frail boat, lifting it high in the air. For a moment they seemed to be suspended between sea and sky, like standing on a mountain top.

  And then they were sliding down, sliding into a pit of churned up colours of greens, blues and broken creams. The boat’s prow was pointing downwards and Setanta himself was almost submerged.

  ‘Oh, Jesus be merciful!’ shrieked one of the bodyguards.

  And then, by some miracle, the boat straightened out. Setanta was now frantically bailing out the water with a leather bucket, working like a madman for a second and then tossing it to Conall.

  ‘That got interesting for a moment!’ he shouted as he began to row again. His eyes met Mara’s and he gave her a cheerful grin.

  ‘Very interesting!’ called back Mara. Her courage was high and she was amazed to find how she had enjoyed the moment, once the danger was past. Cumhal, her farm manager, often took the boys sailing on summer Saturdays or Sundays and she could understand now why they enjoyed it so much. There was something about pitting one’s strength against the elemental winds and waves and surviving it. She doubted whether Setanta would ever settle down to be a sheep farmer on Cliona’s land.

  ‘Tide’s turning,’ shouted Setanta joyfully. ‘Look at the birds, Brehon. They always know.’

  Mara looked towards the shore. The noisy seagulls had now alighted on the harbour wall and were greedily watching the water below. After a few minutes she saw them swoop down and alight on the stony beach below. A few succulent crabs or even a few sprats would probably be entangled in the seaweed and the seagulls would get a tasty meal. She remembered her observation of the white-sailed boats from the window of Ballinalacken.

  ‘How’s the wind, Setanta?’ she shrieked and she saw him lick the corner of his mouth and turn his face.

  ‘Might be shifting,’ he shouted back. ‘Bit slacker, anyway.’

  Mara licked a finger, tasting the intense saltiness of it, and then held it out moving it hopefully towards the north. The pucán lay south of them on its route to the smallest and nearest of the three islands. If the wind moved to the north or even to the north-west it would aid them very much but give no help to the other boat, which could need an easterly or north-easterly wind.

  The master of the pucán and his men had sensed the change in the wind also. They had scented some hope for themselves. A second, rather tattered white sail was being run up the mast. For a moment it hung there, limp and motionless, and the wind caught it. The boat spun helplessly for a moment. Setanta’s boat chopped a few hundred yards off the gap between them; the men on the pucán made some adjustments to the sail. It spread out and took the wind flat against it and then the boat began to move slowly, with several helpless spins, but it was moving to the south-west, moving towards the island.

  Well, thought Mara, it worked once and it will work again. For the second time this day she stuck two fingers in her mouth and sent forth the penetrating whistle. Every head in the pucán turned and then came the familiar, battlefield-trained roar. The sail was immediately hauled down.

  Setanta redoubled his efforts, sending the light boat skimming across the sudden calm that had smoothed the waves. In a short space of time they had reached the pucán and Turlough was there, bending over the bars, his face lit up with an expression of pleasure. At his quick command a ladder was dropped over the side and Setanta grabbed hold of it quickly, resting one oar in its rowlock.

  ‘You go up first,’ said Mara to the two bodyguards. ‘Your place is beside the king.’

  They were on their feet instantly, the useful-looking throwing knives conspicuous on their belts, their faces set and determined. Once they were on deck Mara climbed the ladder. Her cloak, woollen gown and the léine beneath it were all soaked with salt water, but she climbed with as much dignity as she could manage.

  Turlough held out a hand to her, a warm hand that squeezed hers as she mounted the last few rungs of the ladder and stepped on to the deck. She returned the pressure of his hand, but did not look at him.

  All of her attention was focussed on the tall figure standing beside the mast.

  ‘Donán O’Kennedy,’ she said, ‘I, as Brehon of the Burren, accuse you of the murder of Eamon the lawyer on Saturday the eighth day of April and I call upon you to answer for your crime in front of the people of the Burren on judgement day on the eve of the feast of Bealtaine in three weeks’ time.’

  Eighteen

  Bretha Étgid

  (Judgements of Inadvertence)

  The law does not punish a man whose actions led to a death if his intentions are pure and if the risk was thoroughly understood by the victim.

  For instance, a death of a passenger on a boat by drowning is not deemed to be a crime:

  If the weather was inclement.

  If the owner of the boat had done his best to ensure that the boat was in good repair.

  If his seamanship was as good as could be expected.

  If the victim had realized how bad the conditions were.

  Donán’s hand went immediately to his dagger and Mara smiled grimly. She had not needed that for proof, but it was good that Turlough saw it. He stared in horror at his son-in-law, now in the grip of one of the bodyguards, and then back at his wife’s face.

  ‘The murder of Eamon the lawyer,’ he said, his strong voice almost faint. ‘But why? Why on God’s earth would you do a thing like that, boy?’

  The king’s son, Conor, who had been lying on the deck beside the railing, raised his head in astonishment, turned a delicate shade of green and then vomited over the side of the boat. By the look of him, that was not the first time. He tried to gasp out something but Mara ignored him. She had work to be done. Conor was a delicate young man without much spirit. Normally he was quietly affectionate towards his father, but no one felt that he would make a good king. He had been elected tánaiste – heir – when he came to age of eighteen, but had proved to be a disappointment. Unlike the position in England, where the king’s eldest son automatically became king, in Ireland the king was elected from the most promising and warlike of an extended royal family group. The hope of the clan was that Turlough would live to a ripe old age and that when he came to the end of his days there might be a better choice than Conor for successor.

  ‘Turn the pucán around,’ said Mara authoritatively to the ship’s captain. ‘We are not going to Aran today. Turn around and go back to Doolin. Sit down over there, Donán, and you, my Lord of Arra, sit beside him.’

  They did her bidding, almost helplessly. Both bodyguards, with a quick glance at the king, stood threateningly over them. Conall held out a hand and in a dazed manner both took knives from their pouches and handed them to him. Mara gave them one glance and then went back to the side of the pucán and leaned down, looking into the young fisherman’s smiling face.

  ‘Setanta O’Connor, you have a wonderful boat and you managed it marvellously. Someday I hope to go in it again. I hope you have a good trip back to Doolin and find your fish safe. I’m very grateful to you.’

  She would not insult him by offering silver, she thought. At some later date she and Turlough would make a present, perhaps a wedding present when he and Cliona married. ‘Bring the fish up to the castle when you get back,’ she ordered. ‘We’ll t
ake your whole catch. The cook won’t be expecting so many for the evening meal.’

  ‘Tell him to tie that cockleshell of his to the stern; with a wind like that behind us we’ll be back at Doolin long before he could row the half the distance.’ The owner of the pucán had a thick, strong Connaught form of Irish, hard for anyone to understand him on the boat. Mara had been puzzled by the choice of two pucáns to convey the king, his relations and his men-at-arms on his annual visit to Aran. These boats were normally used to carry turf to the Aran as they had neither peat bogs nor trees on the islands. Now she understood the whole business, but nodded affably at the man, before passing on the message to Setanta.

  In a moment, Setanta was on board, holding a rope in his hand which he made fast to an iron spar at the back of the pucán. He did not come forward to join the others, but perched there, keeping an eye on his precious boat.

  Mara gazed after it for a moment as it bobbed behind them on the ocean. A cockleshell, the owner of the pucán had called it and it was an understandable description. Certainly it looked very small and very fragile there on the waves. I’ll never eat fish again, she thought, without remembering the peril that these dauntless men may have undergone in order to put food on the table for those who could afford to buy. She reflected on the young Setanta, bred to a life of toil and danger, working hard, sometimes frightened, surely, often wet and cold, while others of his age played.

  Her eyes went back to Donán O’Kennedy, who would never have had to lift a finger, as Brigid would say, and who now sat sullen and silent, leaving as much room as possible on the bench between himself and O’Brien of Arra. He had been fostered by the Earl of Ormond, a strange choice by his father. Why send the son of a Gaelic chieftain into the household of an English earl? Even though the family of the Earl of Ormond, like the Earl of Kildare’s family, had lived in Ireland for over two hundred years they had never broken their connection with England and had always paid homage to the English king, dressed like the English, brought up their children to be English and to despise the laws and the customs into which they had been born.

  ‘Take off that wet cloak.’ Turlough was at her side removing the cloak as he spoke. Quickly he took off his own cloak, lined with wolf fur, and placed it on her shoulders.

  ‘You will be cold now,’ she said, but smiled her thanks. He did not question her, she thought with amusement. He had complete faith in her judgement. His only question had been to his son-in-law. What made you do it? he had asked and it had been a good question.

  So what did make Donán do it? Not shortage of money. He and Ragnelt lived in as much luxury as Turlough himself and worked far less – not at all, in fact. Donán’s life was a self-indulgent one of eating, drinking and occasional hunting. Already he was beginning to show the signs of that overindulgence. His skin was sallow and his waist had thickened.

  So what had made him do it? It depended, thought Mara, on which crime you thought of.

  Because there had been three crimes.

  And then she thought of Eamon. What had made him do it? Could his upbringing have had anything to do with his eventual fate? She knew what his upbringing would have been like. Not for him the indulgence of English castle life, of being served on bended knee, of days filled with idleness. Eamon was brought up in a law school and in their own way, the young law scholars worked as hard as the sons of fishermen and perhaps even harder than the sons of farmers. The learning went on from first thing in the morning almost to last thing at night. Thousands and thousands of law texts, whether couched in triads or heptads, or else presented in large, indigestible chunks, had to be memorized, learned and relearned, until they were safely and permanently stored in the young brains. Latin, with all its difficulties, all the horrors of the pluperfect subjunctive and the ablative absolute, was started at the age of five and by graduation they spoke it as if it were their native tongue. The self-discipline acquired by these young scholars was immense; Mara had experienced some who would conceal illness to the moment of almost collapse in case they fell behind with their studies by taking to their beds.

  So what had happened to Eamon? Why had he done that? Did he, sometime in his youth, acquire false values that told him a bag of silver was worth more than integrity?

  ‘They’re signalling from Aran, from the castle, my lord.’ The shout from the owner of the pucán interrupted Mara’s thoughts.

  ‘Waving a flag,’ said Conall, taking his eyes from the two on the bench and turning back towards the island.

  Mara narrowed her eyes but could barely see the flag waving frantically. The turn around of the pucán had been noticed, she thought.

  ‘Keep heading for Doolin,’ she said firmly and avoided Turlough’s enquiring eyes. What a very good-tempered and trusting man he was not to deluge her with enquiries!

  The next moment, they were almost deafened by an ear-splitting explosion. Mara had never heard anything like it in her life before. It was louder than any storm sound and seemed to rent the sky. The seagulls flew straight up into the air, a panic-stricken flock, in a cluster of white feathers and wide-open squawking yellow bills.

  ‘My God! He’s got a cannon!’ yelled Turlough, more in admiration than in fear or shock.

  ‘Where would he have got that from?’ inquired Mara. There was only one answer to that, she thought, as she realized the significance of the cannon shot. The picture that had formed in her mind during that hour of solitude at the foot of the castle mound had been correct in its broad outline, but only now were all the small details coming to light.

  The sea was full of boats, white-sailed boats that were more like small ships than the familiar red-sailed hookers and cogs of these Atlantic straits. What was it Setanta had said that day when she had met him in Ballinalacken? He had been boasting of the excellence of his boat and had compared it, contemptuously, to ‘those English ships’. Why had she not noticed that word?

  And now they were in danger. Some sort of signal had been given by that cannon shot. A large ship with many sails darted out from the harbour at the eastern end of the island. Another followed it.

  Even more alarming, a third ship that had been tossing on the waves not too far from them now turned its prow in their direction.

  ‘Sail as fast as you can,’ said Mara to the boat owner in fluent Connaught Irish. ‘Quick, get every ounce of sail up. I want us back in Doolin before that English ship can reach us.’

  ‘English!’ echoed Turlough, catching that word. In a moment, he had understood everything and there was a harsh, angry look on his face. He cast a look of disgust at his son-in-law, unbuttoned the short leather jacket that he wore and revealed a formidable collection of throwing knives, each in separate pockets.

  ‘Let any man try to board this ship and he’ll get a knife in the guts,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Go and join my lord,’ Mara said to the bodyguards. ‘Give me one of those knives and I’ll guard your prisoners. For pity’s sake, Conor,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Get up off that deck; seasickness is purely imaginary. Forget it.’ And then she swung around rapidly as O’Brien of Arra made a half attempt to stand up. ‘Stay where you are, my lord, and you, too, Donán. Any attempt to move and I’ll feed you to the fishes.’

  The two English ships from Aran were travelling fast, but the pucán, she judged, was going faster still. They were out in the open sea and felt the full force of the west wind; the ships were still in the lee of the island.

  ‘Faster,’ she muttered. All of the English ships had more sail and presumably that meant a faster speed; they had to get well ahead in the next five minutes or so. She gave a hasty glance at the prisoners and then back out to sea again. The lone English ship was the danger now. Would it try to accost them or would it wait for the other three ships? That might be more deadly, she thought, and tried to remember the accounts of naval battles described by the Roman author Tacitus. Grappling irons, she thought, and quickly picked up a pair of oars from beside the mast and handed th
em to Conor who had staggered to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly.

  ‘Use these for pushing away the ship if it gets too near,’ she said encouragingly, but spoke loudly enough to be heard by the king’s bodyguards. Turlough also heard and he gave her a grin, but then once more the air was split by the thunderous explosion from the cannon. This time it was fired towards them and something hit the sea and a sparkling jet of water shot upwards.

  ‘Missed by a mile!’ yelled Turlough shaking his fist at the island. ‘By God, if I ever get a chance to catch hold of Brian the Spaniard I’ll strangle him with my own pair of hands, cousin or no cousin.’

  Turlough’s other cousin, O’Brien of Arra, looked startled at that, Mara was glad to see. He thrust his hands into the comfort of his warm cloak, hunched his shoulders and stared apprehensively over his shoulder at the bulk of the island with its castle perched halfway up the slope.

  Strangling or knives, neither was a weapon that would avail against cannon and handguns. Turlough was living in the past, thought Mara. If only they could get back to Doolin, reunite him with his men-at-arms, and then get everyone in behind the wooden door of Ballinalacken Castle. An iron cannon would be too difficult to move by road, too slow, too cumbersome with its escort in continuous danger from the lightly clad Irish, armed with their throwing knives. But by sea was different; a cannon could have been shipped across from England and landed at the safe, sandy harbour of Aran and then dragged by islanders up the short, steep slope to the castle.

  ‘Brehon, that ship, the one that’s been out there all the morning, that’s holding off deliberately.’ Setanta had decided that his boat was safe and had joined Mara, casting a curious eye on the knife in her hand and on the two men huddled on the bench before her.

  ‘Holding off deliberately,’ repeated Mara and her heart sank. Her eyes went to the two ships, now out of the lee shore of the island, now moving faster, blown by the west wind. The third boat had to tack in order to make the best of the wind, but each long diagonal movement was bringing them nearer and nearer to the pucán.