And yet he was reputed to be a meticulously careful man. He had often boasted at meetings between lawyers from all over Ireland that he prepared all of his cases weeks in advance and even made a written copy of the evidence from witnesses.
Mara turned to Enda. ‘Was this like him?’ she asked, indicating the empty pages. ‘Not even a list of the hearings.’
‘He didn’t allow me to know anything about the cases in advance,’ said Enda shortly. The momentary flicker of light-heartedness when he had opened the lock had now gone and his face bore a heavy brooding expression. ‘The only thing that he said to me last night, and he was rubbing his hands and looking very pleased about something when he said it, was that he had decided to hold the day of judgement on the day after Christmas, and not to wait for the Little Christmas as usual.’
Mara frowned in puzzlement. The sixth of January would have been the usual day for a court to be held. The day after Christmas would encroach on the King’s festivities.
‘Where is the court held normally?’ she asked.
‘Here at the castle – in the great hall. He, the Brehon, Brehon MacClancy, would sit in the centre of the table with all his scrolls and documents around him. I would sit at the end of the table in case he wanted to send me on some errand or get me to hand him a deed or something. The people would sit on benches in the main hall or stand around by the walls, while the persons in the hearing stood on the dais.’
Mara frowned in puzzlement. Turlough had said nothing to her about a court being held during her stay. She, and her scholars, had been due to return on the fifth of January. She had chosen the day on purpose so that she would not interfere in the legal proceedings of another kingdom.
‘So will a lot of people be turning up to witness a judgement day at any moment now? Perhaps we should send out messages – at least to the village – perhaps to the churches – no good sending to the mills – no one will be grinding corn on the day after Christmas.’
‘No,’ said Enda with an effort. ‘This was not going to be a public day of judgement. When I asked him about that he told me that all concerned would be already at the castle. He was rubbing his hands together and muttering that some people would be very surprised and that the King was going to get a shock and that he was going to uncover secrets and expose what was rotten in the kingdom – that’s the way he was talking.’
‘And did he tell you who would be concerned?’
‘No,’ said Enda.
There was something about the brusqueness of the monosyllable that made Mara persist.
‘Did he tell you to be there?’
‘Of course; I was his servant.’ There was something slightly artificial about the deliberately abrupt way that Enda said this and Mara persisted.
‘So he told you about the time.’
‘Ten o’clock,’ said Enda more readily. ‘He told me that I would have to hold myself in readiness an hour before that in order to summon everyone.’
It would have been safe to presume that most people would be present within the castle at that hour, especially after the late night, thought Mara. And this question of summoning everyone seemed to indicate that Brehon MacClancy had decided to make a public example of those whom he had intended to prove guilty. Presumably he would have told Turlough the night before – if he had not been killed before that happened, of course.
‘But he must, at least, have had a list of those whom he intended to try,’ she said aloud.
‘He normally had everything written down. Someone must have taken it and it wasn’t I,’ said Enda, looking at her defiantly.
Mara did not answer. She picked up a branch of candles and carried it over to the cupboard and examined it carefully. The paint had been thickly applied – fairly recently, she reckoned, judging by the freshness of the colour. But just beside the lock there was a scratch – a scratch deep enough to allow the pale tan colour of the wood to show through. She returned and replaced the candles on the table.
‘Let me see your knife,’ she said.
He produced it with a puzzled expression and she examined it carefully. No, there was no trace of paint on it now, but, that of course, did not mean that he had not used it the night before, had not cleaned it previously – either early last night or first thing this morning. Enda, she remembered, was housed in the south-eastern tower only a flight of stairs below the room occupied by the Brehon.
Something occurred to her then.
‘I suppose that press was locked,’ she said. ‘It was not that it had stuck or something.’
‘It was locked,’ said Enda defensively. ‘You heard the click, yourself, didn’t you?’
It was true, thought Mara, that she had heard a click, but, on the other hand, it would have been easy perhaps to turn the lock backwards and then forwards in order to pretend that it had been locked.
‘If someone murdered the Brehon last night then he could have slipped the keys from his pouch and used them to open the cupboard.’ It was getting more imperative all the time to have a thorough examination of the dead man and of his clothes. But there was no sign of Donogh O’Hickey this morning.
And if Turlough was correct, then the body would remain stiff for another day or so and it would be impossible to get it out of that box before then. She would just have to proceed with her enquiries. Meditatively she began to stack the unwritten scrolls back into their box and then dislodged one of a different colour – much smaller – parchment rather than vellum, she thought, the quality was not at all so fine. She unrolled it and then took it to the table, flattening it with her hands.
And it was the satire. Cleverly done, she acknowledged, wincing slightly. Not very complimentary to Turlough, also, hinting that she led him by the nose. Aengus MacCraith had observed her closely, copied many of her favourite expressions, contrived to make her sound domineering and a woman well past her prime of life, still pretending to a youth that she did not have, not covering her head with the usual linen but displaying her hair, which he hinted was dyed, to all. The twins had undoubtedly read this, but how had they got hold of it? Once Brehon MacClancy got it into his hands he would have locked it up and surely contemplated showing it to the King on judgement day, or even, she winced again, reading it aloud.
She handed it to Enda with an effort, but was warmed to see a definite look of indignation on his face. He handed it back to her and then said with relish, ‘King Turlough will kill him, or roast him alive.’
‘I think this is something that we will keep to ourselves. I am the injured party and I choose to do nothing about this.’ Mara had come to an instant decision. It was against instinct to destroy evidence, but she could not risk Turlough’s hurt and fury if he read this silly satire. She hesitated for a moment. Was Brehon MacClancy’s seizure of this document enough of an incentive for his murder at the hands of Aengus MacCraith? She thought not. Despite Enda’s words, Turlough was not a man to inflict any savage punishment on one of household. He would have been filled with fury, would have been most upset, but it would all have blown over and they would probably have been best of friends again within months, if not weeks.
Nevertheless it was evidence, so she took a blank scroll from the cupboard and wrote on it,
‘A scurrilous satire was written, allegedly by Aengus MacCraith, on the subject of Mara, Brehon of the Burren. I have read the lines before they were destroyed.
As witness by hand:
Mara, Brehon of the Burren.
Enda, Assistant Brehon of Thomond.’
She signed the document and then pushed it across to him.
‘I’ll keep this in case there is need for it,’ she said holding the vellum to the fire to dry the ink and then tying it with tape and putting it into her own pouch. She did not look at Enda, but busily arranged the scrolls in the cupboard in neat order.
‘Brehon MacClancy changed very much in the last few years, didn’t he, Enda? I remember when you went here first that the King said how well you were getting
on with him and what high praise he had of you.’ She herself did not often come to Bunratty – she preferred, when she was at leisure, for Turlough and herself to spend time in Ballinalacken Castle overlooking the sea and the Aran Islands. However, she had noticed a great change in MacClancy the last time that she had come.
‘What happened? What changed him?’ she asked then when he did not reply.
‘I think that his mind began to go,’ said Enda eventually. ‘His memory began to get very bad – he would forget people’s names, forget things that they said – not the law, he didn’t forget that – anything from the past, anything that he had learned when he was young, that was very real to him, but you could tell him something and five minutes later he would forget’
‘And how did he deal with this?’ Mara had a great wish for Nuala to be present; she was sure that she would understand.
‘He got bad tempered,’ said Enda. ‘And then he would get angry and accuse you of lying to him. He seemed to hate everyone and want to do them harm.’
‘And blackmail – do you think that he indulged in that? After all he was going to blackmail Aengus MacCraith.’
Enda nodded reluctantly. ‘It gave him a sense of power to find out things about people and threaten them. It made him feel better; perhaps made him feel that he was …’ He stopped and thought for a moment and then added, ‘Perhaps it made him feel more in control.’
Mara nodded. That was the old Enda, clever and astute. She watched him carefully. Had MacClancy blackmailed Enda? Somehow she did not think so. But someone that Enda loved; now that was a distinct possibility.
‘The twins were telling me about the business with Shona,’ she said, turning away to stack the law books in a neat pile.
There was a long silence. These books are very dusty; he hasn’t used them much for the last few years – thought he knew everything and didn’t bother looking things up to check, thought Mara, with one half of her mind, while the other half was tense and concentrated, listening for an intake of breath. She heard nothing, though, and turned to face him. His eyes were very bright and his face was very pale but he looked very directly at her.
‘So you haven’t found out yet what he was holding over my head.’ He almost spat the words out and for the second time in the day he turned away from her and went to the door.
‘Wait,’ she said imperatively. Enda had been a scholar of hers from the age of eight to seventeen and the tone of voice acted on him like the whistle of a shepherd to his dog. He turned back instantly and she went to meet him.
‘We’ve known each other for a long time,’ she said urgently. ‘Surely you can trust me. I know that you are in trouble. Tell me, and let us sort it out together.’
For a moment his face relaxed into the expression that she had known so well – half deprecating, half hopeful of forgiveness, and then it hardened. She could see that he was going to walk away and she put out a hand to him in mute protest.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said between gritted teeth.
‘I think that I do understand,’ she said quickly. ‘You are worried about Shona.’ She thought for a fleeting moment, anxious to speak before he stormed out of her presence, once again.
‘Shona was fostered by Brehon MacClancy,’ she said, feeling her way, but endeavouring to sound confident and in possession of the facts. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she went on, ‘that, if, as you say, a great change came over his intellect and his personality during the last few years, he was the ideal foster-father for a girl approaching womanhood. I seem to remember that his sister is a woman ten years even older than he, and Shona would not have received much interest, or guidance from her.’ Mara looked at Enda and said with careful emphasis, ‘It is possible that in such a situation that a girl like Shona, passionate, warm, loving …’
She saw the glow of assent in his eyes and finished, ‘A girl like that might have got into some sort of trouble …’
… might well have become pregnant, born a child to a man who would, in her father’s eyes, and also in the eyes of her foster-father and of the rest of the clan, seemed completely unsuited to the daughter of a taoiseach … Mara’s thoughts ran on as she watched him carefully.
Enda’s eyes were now shuttered, the lids dropped down over their burning blue. His hands clenched and unclenched, but he said nothing.
‘I think that a young man who truly loved her would understand that what had happened was not her fault, that if all her guardians, those who should have had her welfare at heart, would keep quiet about the past, then a girl like this, with all the good qualities which made her worthy of love, could go ahead to a bright future.’
‘But if those that should have been her protectors turned blackmailers …’ said Enda in a harsh voice which broke over the last word.
‘Exactly!’ Mara nodded her head. ‘I’m not sure what comes next,’ she said with great honesty. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I do understand that if someone whom you love has been badly treated, then a great wall of hate can build up – and perhaps that hate can turn into something self-destructive and evil.’ She watched him carefully, but then he turned away. She could see the struggle in his face and then his lips tighten. She had a sudden memory of Enda as a quite young boy, only about nine years old. She had been questioning him about some idiotic behaviour of the scholars which had resulted in the burning down of a tree in the woodland beside the law school. Enda on that occasion had suddenly become very distant, tightened his lips in the way he had done just now and had said, with great dignity: ‘It’s not my secret, Brehon.’
Then, as now, she had acquiesced in the justice of this and had told him he could go, and in almost the same words now she said, ‘Well, Enda, if there is anything that you feel you can tell me, or anything else that you know about this very serious and difficult matter, do come and find me instantly.’
When he had left she searched the Brehon’s press more thoroughly. The scrolls relating to the next judgement day were certainly not there but there could be other clues. She remembered Enda’s words about MacClancy collecting evidence and went methodically through the four sections of the cupboard again.
This time she found something that she had missed on the first search. Underneath the rolls of unused vellum, she found a tin box. She thought it contained quills, lying packed in bundles, ready to be sharpened into pens, but when she opened it, she found that there were rolled sheets of vellum and parchment inside it. She pulled out the top scroll and unfolded it. Her eyes widened. The vellum was of superfine quality, but that was not what had startled her.
It was a letter, a letter written in English, not the straightforward English of the people of Galway, but the flowery, multisyllabic English of the King’s court. She glanced at the seal at the bottom of the letter and saw that it bore the name of one of Henry VIII’s ministers.
‘My lord,’ it began and then went on to several effusive compliments and wishes for the reader’s good health. And then came the bit that made her stare in astonishment. ‘I can confirm that your surmise is correct. His Majesty has been pleased to confer the Barony of Moyarta on Turlough O’Brien.’
Turlough! Made Baron of Moyarta! But Moyarta was just one small western portion of the lands possessed by her husband.
And then Mara’s mind cleared. Of course, she should have guessed.
The O’Brien lineage from Brian Boru was an ancient one. Time after time she had heard the great names of its chieftains, down through five hundred years to the present day, recited by poet and bard. And each time her mind lost itself among a sea of Turloughs, Donoghs, Teiges, Conors and Murroughs – the O’Briens were mighty warriors but they were singularly lacking in imagination and extremely conservative when it came to naming their children. There were at least ten kings who had been named Turlough which she could recollect offhand, and, of course, they all had nicknames. Her husband was Turlough Donn, because of his brown hair, his kingly uncle had been simply called the Gilladuff, the dark lad
, and then there had been Turlough of the Chessboard and Turlough Mór – a man of great height – and many others.
So when the grandson of Turlough Donn, Conor and Ellice’s eldest son, was born, he was named Turlough through family custom. But after a few years when he showed signs of a plump, broad, heavy figure, he was nicknamed Raour and had been Raour ever since.
Mara stared down at the letter. So Raour, who had been sent to London to invite his uncle Murrough to the celebrations of the twentieth anniversary, had transacted some business on his own account.
Was it the young man’s own idea, or had the title been given at the request of Murrough? To be Baron of Moyarta was not a title of any great consequence. Mara guessed that Murrough had a much greater title in mind for himself if the English ever managed to get control of the three kingdoms. However, if his nephew adopted an English title then that would undermine the position of his father, Conor, and of his grandfather, King Turlough Donn.
Turlough, thought Mara, would be furious and extremely wounded if he had heard of what his grandson had done behind his back.
And if Brehon MacClancy told the King of Raour’s treachery, then it would spell an end to any chance of the young man being elected as tánaiste or heir to the kingship of Thomond, Corcomroe and Burren. Turlough was fanatically hostile to anything English, whether their laws, their way of dress, or their customs – and especially angry at the efforts they were making to extend their influence over Gaelic Ireland and reduce his native country to the status of an offshore island, subject to a master race of England. He would not remain quiet under any action of his grandson that appeared to uphold the English ambitions.
Deep in thought, Mara replaced the document and resolved that she would take this box into her own custody. There was nothing else of interest there: just some bills of sale for copious amounts of salmon – fruits from the river by Urlan Castle, perhaps, she thought – and also an account book detailing payments to a fisherman – probably the one who supplied the salmon. There was nothing in the cupboard which could relate to Fionn O’Brien. Mara had wondered about him. The heiress, the woman who had provided the castle which was now his place of residence, had a tough look about her. If Fionn was to offend her in any way then a divorce would quickly result and divorce under Brehon law, was, as Mara well knew, very easy to obtain if a wife felt ill-used or swindled by her husband. She decided to have a word with Turlough. He was no gossip, but he usually knew what was going on in his kingdom.
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 9
