Deed of Murder

by Cora Harrison

  ‘They’re going to try to surround us,’ she said, half to herself but half to Setanta. ‘Now let me think of the battle of Actium; what did Tacitus say? What did Octavius do?’

  ‘Never heard of either of them,’ said Setanta firmly. ‘My lord,’ he called. ‘These three ships will have you surrounded before the sun moves away from the cliffs of Moher.’

  ‘Let them try anything,’ growled Turlough. ‘I’m ready for them. I have my son by my side . . .’ He cast a quick look at the pallid Conor, his tánaiste, and added hastily, ‘And two good bodyguards at my back.’

  ‘With respect, my lord, that is not enough,’ said Setanta firmly. ‘The sea is no place to be fighting three against one battles and these ships are probably packed with armed men, wearing metal jackets, too. I’ve seen the sun glint on them. No, what you must do is to get the sea to work for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Turlough sounded annoyed. ‘Don’t you go dictating battle strategies to me, young man; I was fighting battles when you were in your cradle.’

  ‘My cradle was the sea,’ said Setanta with a grin. He jerked his thumb at the helmsman. ‘Does that fellow there speak any decent Irish?’

  ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll translate for you,’ said Mara quickly. She herself could see how the ships advanced like a pack of dogs about to bring down a wolf.

  ‘This is a chance – just a chance, my lord,’ said Setanta. ‘See over there where the gulls are rising and the water is a different colour.’

  Mara’s eyes followed his outstretched hand. She could see what he meant. One patch of the water was not a deep greeny-blue but was translucent with white spray rising from it. As she watched a wave approached, shuddered and broke.

  ‘There are rocks there,’ she said with alarm.

  ‘That’s right, Brehon, a whole line of them, stretching from that spot almost on to the shore. Many’s the time that I sailed over them. You can find great lobsters, lurking there.’

  ‘Sailed over them?’ queried the king.

  ‘That’s right, my lord, they’re further down than you think. Ask that man what sort of keel he has, is it smaller than a hooker’s keel?’ he said urgently to Mara and she quickly translated his question.

  ‘He says not as deep as a hooker’s but he doesn’t want to risk the rocks.’

  ‘He’ll risk it or I’ll put a knife into him.’ In an instant Setanta produced a wicked-looking knife, all stained with blood, from his pouch and held it menacingly at the man from Connaught. ‘It’s our only chance, my lord,’ he said to the king. ‘We go that way, they follow us. These ships have deep keels; I saw one a couple of days ago when I and two other boats went out far after a shark.’

  ‘You mean that they will go on the rocks? Good man.’ Turlough hugged his son’s thin shoulders with glee and then punched Setanta on the arm.

  ‘I’ll stand beside you and translate,’ said Mara. ‘Conor, you watch these men. Take this knife; don’t hesitate to use it if necessary.’

  The knife wavered in Conor’s hand, but it would probably serve to keep his mind off the seasickness. Both Donán and O’Brien of Arra looked quite cowed and the king was flanked by his two bodyguards. Mara moved across to where the boat owner was standing, tiller in his hand and his eyes fixed stubbornly ahead.

  ‘To the right,’ said Setanta. ‘Just a little. Don’t want the ships to take too much notice.’

  Mara translated and the pucán altered course very slightly.

  ‘Just a bit more,’ said Setanta indicating with his hand and nodded with satisfaction when his order was obeyed. Now the boat was pointing slightly away from the harbour at Doolin. The three white-sailed ships followed discreetly.

  ‘Bit more,’ said Setanta. Now he put his own hand on the tiller for a minute and nodded with satisfaction. ‘Nice boat,’ he said admiringly. ‘Answers to a touch.’

  Mara translated, but there was no change in the boat owner’s surly expression. He had been in the plot, she thought, he and his comrade who had no doubt been heavily compensated for the hole in his boat. She glanced over her shoulder and then stiffened with alarm. The English ships were no longer sailing three abreast. One had shot rapidly towards the south, the centre boat remained behind them but the third boat was sailing directly towards the harbour.

  ‘The pincer movement,’ said Mara aloud. ‘You remember your Livy, my lord, and you, Conor, from your studies. Livy wrote about Hannibal using the pincer movement in his battles – one detachment to the back and two on the flanks of the enemy.’

  Both men gave her a look of total incomprehension and Mara half smiled to herself. She would have to tell her scholars about this. Their knowledge of the classical writers was fresh and profound, but she had always found that a practical analogy was what made the knowledge stick firmly. She would have them make small models of the pucán and of the three English ships and they could reconstruct the sea and the rocks in the pond beyond the orchard. It would be a fun activity for the last day of term next Monday.

  Mara felt quite confident now in Setanta. He knew what he was doing. By now she no longer needed to translate. The young fisherman had his hand on the tiller and, inch by inch, was nudging the pucán towards the ominous pale patch in the sea. And where the pucán went, the three English ships followed – one to the back and now one on either side.

  The man from Connaught was looking more and more worried. It was understandable that he did not want to risk his boat and the lives of all upon her, but Mara was cheerfully secure in her belief in Setanta. She could see now that this was their only hope. Those three English ships had so much more sail and the west wind still blew hard. They would, by now, have caught up with and surrounded the pucán if Setanta had not changed its course.

  ‘Take it easy, take it easy!’ suddenly shouted Setanta with alarm as the boat owner rudely pushed him aside and took over the tiller himself. ‘Don’t jerk it like that! Slow and easy – that’s the way to do it.’

  Mara translated rapidly, struck by the note in Setanta’s voice.

  ‘Should you take over the boat?’ she asked him in a low voice. ‘I can easily get one of the king’s bodyguards to put the man under arrest. I’m sure that he was part of the plot.’

  Setanta shook his head. ‘No, a man knows his own boat. I wouldn’t like anyone to take my boat. He’ll know the feel of it.’

  The boat owner gazed straight ahead, but Mara had an uneasy feeling that he might have understood what she said. Perhaps in his dealings with Aran he had picked up more Munster Gaelic than he pretended.

  ‘That’s it,’ Setanta was saying, breaking up his phrases in order to give her time to translate. ‘Straight ahead, now . . . Let’s keep them guessing . . . We don’t want one to be stuck on the rocks and the other two free to make mischief . . . Turn a little to the right . . . Take it easy . . . Don’t wheel too suddenly . . . Just a few inches at the time.’ He seemed quite at ease, quite confident, this fisherman’s son with the lives of the king, the king’s wife, and his tánaiste in his hands. A man who lived by the sea, for the sea and on the sea. He was the only one on the pucán who did not hold on to something when the boat wallowed in the shallows or climbed the waves. His balance was perfect and the slight movements he made to retain it were almost imperceptible.

  ‘We’re right over the rocks now, my lord, and the pucán is sailing beautifully,’ he called.

  ‘Good man,’ returned Turlough while Conor paled and Donán half stood up and then sat down again, shivering violently.

  The three English ships held off for a moment, but then the ship on the right began to close in on them.

  ‘This run of rocks is about half a mile wide,’ said Setanta to Mara. ‘We’ll be able to go most of the way to the shore on it, but hopefully the ships will get stuck on it before then.’

  ‘Tell him that I’d like to send a lump of lead down just to test the water,’ said the boat owner abruptly to Mara.

  ‘Don’t let him do that!’ excl
aimed Setanta with alarm. ‘These fellows are not stupid. They’ll know that he is sounding the depths if they see him doing that. It’s only if they see us sailing confidently along that they’ll follow us. They probably don’t know what a shallow draught the pucán has.’

  The man shrugged fatalistically when Mara had translated. ‘A woman at a fair in Connemara told me that I would die in my bed,’ he observed. ‘Let’s hope that she was right.’

  ‘Could we go a bit faster here? Put up some more sail. I’ll hold the tiller steady.’ Setanta gestured and the man understood, leaving his position and altering the sail slightly to the right.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Setanta with satisfaction as the boat leaped forward. ‘I thought there was a bit of a change in the wind a minute ago. A touch of north into it. Now we’re catching every breath of it.’

  Setanta was enjoying this immensely, thought Mara, despite all his pretended disdain for bigger boats. She began to plan a splendid sailing boat as a wedding present for Setanta and Cliona. She looked over her shoulder. His manoeuvre had worked. The pucán had drawn well ahead of the three English ships. The one at the back accelerated and then slowed down and stopped.

  ‘Stuck!’ shouted Setanta.

  There were shouts from the rear ship, shouts of warning, probably, but the wind was very loud and the waves were crashing. The men in the other ships would probably take them as encouragement. Mara found herself crossing her fingers and endeavouring to pray at the same moment.

  ‘It’s working, my lord,’ called Setanta. ‘It’s working! Watch!’

  Mara’s head turned first in one direction and then in the other. Both events happened almost simultaneously. The ship on the left struck the rocks first. There was a slight lull in the roar of the wind at that moment and they heard the dull boom and then the ship on the right lurched violently and then stayed very still. One of its masts cracked and the sails tumbled to the deck.

  ‘We’ve done it, by God!’ yelled Turlough and at the very same instant, the boat owner, the man from Connaught, handed over the tiller to Setanta. He went forward towards the central mast. He seemed to be fiddling with something and then opened a box there.

  He’s trying to put up more sail, thought Mara vaguely, and concentrated on looking ahead towards the harbour at Doolin. She could see the figures on the shore; they had looked tiny the last time that she had looked, but now they could almost be recognized. She was sure that she could see the small, slight figure of Ulick Burke standing amongst the tall figures of the burly men-at-arms.

  Setanta was still at the tiller, whistling a dance tune as he looked ahead with a lively anticipation on his face. He had slightly altered the course of the pucán and now they were heading directly for the harbour. No doubt they would soon be off the rocks, but this course was taking them more in the direction of the English ship on the left, still securely stuck on the rocks. Its men were leaning over the deck’s bar and as Mara looked suddenly a hail of arrows flew from the ship, aimed directly at the pucán.

  ‘Missed!’ shouted Turlough. But the two bodyguards seized him immediately by the arms, both expostulating vehemently, and dragged him away from the side of the ship. Mara noticed with amusement that neither bothered about Conor who had thrown himself flat upon the deck.

  And then while everyone was looking at the English ship and at the arrows which still fluttered out from it, there was a deafening crack. The single mast in the centre of the pucán had swayed then fallen to one side, bringing down the red sail with it.

  Nineteen

  Di Chetharsllicht Athgab

  (Dealing with distraint) Sellach (the onlooker)

  The witness to an offence who does not prevent the crime is also guilty, in this instance his offence is called cin súlo (the crime of the eye).

  These onlookers are divided into three categories:

  The man who, though he did not commit the crime, has been the instigator. He must pay the full penalty.

  The man who accompanies and takes pleasure in the crime. He must pay half of the penalty.

  Also guilty is the man who looks on and makes no attempt to stop the crime. He must pay one quarter of the penalty.

  In a moment the bodyguards had twisted the axe from the boatman’s grasp and knocked him to the ground. One sat on his chest and held a knife to his throat while the other cut a length of rope and bound his hands and feet together until he was trussed like a parcel. He swore and struggled but eventually lay still, looking up at his ruined mast. His face was not ill-satisfied. No doubt he felt that somehow or other his rescue would be achieved; that the pucán would be boarded and that the plan could go forward.

  The pucán glided to a halt and rocked gently on the waves. There was a shout of exultation from the nearest ship. Mara looked around desperately and saw a fourth ship, large and with many sails, rounding the end of Aran and pointing directly towards them. There were some bulky objects on the deck and she narrowed her eyes, trying to make out what they were.

  ‘It’s carrying boats; they’ve guessed what has happened to the ship. They’ll launch the boats when they get near the ridge of rocks. They’ll probably have guns, too. I’ve heard that they have two hand guns at the castle on Aran.’ Setanta’s eyes had followed hers. ‘Hold this,’ he said. Quickly he had passed the tiller to her. ‘Keep it straight,’ he instructed and a minute later was at the back of the boat, his fisherman’s knife catching a glint of the sun which had just emerged from the clouds.

  In a moment he was running along the side of the boat, holding the rope in one hand. ‘Keep down, my lord,’ he yelled as a flock of arrows came across. Mara winced and felt herself duck automatically. One hit the side of the pucán, but the rest sank uselessly into the turbulent sea.

  ‘Keep them busy,’ shouted Setanta and quick-witted Fergal, the younger of the two bodyguards, stripped the red cloak from Donán, draping it over the broken section of the mast. The cloak fluttered in the wind and looked most realistic and the men on the ship shouted and raised their bows.

  Another score of arrows came across and once again one reached the deck while the others fell short.

  ‘Only one man among them can shoot properly,’ shouted Turlough. ‘What the blazes is that young fellow doing?’

  Setanta had reached the prow of the ship. He had tied his rope to a bar there and had quickly slipped overboard. Turlough pushed his protesting son aside and followed him quickly.

  ‘Merciful God in heaven,’ he yelled. ‘The lad is going to tow us!’

  Mara longed to look, but she clung to the tiller. ‘Keep it straight,’ Setanta had said and she would obey his orders. Was it possible for a tiny boat made from hazel sticks and covered with cow hides, like the curragh, to pull the much heavier pucán, she wondered and then remembered the delight of her youngest scholar Shane, when, as a homesick eight-year-old, exiled from the inland sea of the Great Lake in northern Ireland, he had been allowed by a friendly fisherman to pull a large hooker along the length of the harbour wall. If a rather-undersized child of that age could pull a boat of that weight, perhaps Setanta, rowing hard, might be able to tow the pucán.

  And so it seemed to be happening. After a couple of jerks the pucán began to move – definitely moving. But, of course, the pace was so slow. Without the sail the wind was of little use to them and the tide was receding.

  Mara cast several anxious glances over her shoulder. The fourth ship, profiting from the strong west-northwest wind, was making great progress. It seemed to be bounding through the water, its sails fully expanded. At this rate it might catch them before they reached the safety of the harbour. She longed to join Turlough, to go and look over the prow and watch how Setanta was doing, but he had asked her to hold the tiller straight and she held on grimly.

  Turlough was shouting encouragement and jokes down to Setanta, although there did not seem to be any response – he would probably be sensibly saving his breath for rowing. Mara smiled with pleasure. She could imagine what it
must be like for Setanta to be on such familiar footing with the king of three kingdoms, Turlough Donn, the most popular king of Thomond, Burren and Corcomroe in living memory. Turlough was a great king, a great leader of men, an honest and sincere person, gentle and affectionate. She felt tears blur her eyes as she thought of all his virtues and then she looked across at the two men who had plotted against him and her mind filled with anger. They would pay the full penalty of the law, she promised herself. Once they had arrived back safely she would make sure that the news of their ignominy would be known across the length and breadth of the three kingdoms.

  If we get out of here safely . . . she said to herself, but then caught a glimpse over her shoulder of the fourth ship. For a moment, she thought it was impossible that it had moved so far in so few minutes, but no, it was definitely the same ship. She looked back at the harbour. It was a little nearer, but nothing dramatic. However, the pucán continued to move and Turlough continued to shout robust words of encouragement to Setanta.

  And then something strange happened. Dotted all over the broad blue-green surface of the sea were curraghs. Fishermen from Doolin, Fanore, Gleninagh and from further down the coast were fishing in this rich stretch of water between the coast and the three islands of Aran. Somehow or other, they had understood what was going on. They would have heard the cannon, seen the English ships in pursuit, perhaps followed the path of the arrows, and now saw one of their own was being hunted. Setanta was an O’Connor, one of the main clans in Doolin; the man and his boat would have been known to all of them.

  And then all of these men left their lucrative fishing grounds and, rowing lightly and strongly, turned their prows towards the harbour. For a moment Mara could not understand what was happening. But then, as she looked, she could see that they were joining each other. Joining together so that the boats stretched in a long line, forming a frail barrier between the fast-moving fourth ship and the wounded pucán being towed by the little curragh.