All was as usual there. The main guard hall was for the men-at-arms. They ate there, talked, sang, worked there and slept there at night on straw-filled pallets. When Mara came in she saw that the trestle tables for the meals were dismantled and piled up at the sides of the room. A group of guards were talking in front of the fire, another group were sharpening their swords and others were rubbing oil into wooden leather-covered shields. There was a pause in the lively conversation and snatches of song when she came in and the captain came forward instantly.
‘Anything that I can do for you, Brehon,’ he said, immediately attentive to the King’s wife.
‘I wonder could you lend me a couple of your men, Captain,’ said Mara making a great effort to sound cool and unconcerned. ‘I wish to examine the dead body and could do with some assistance. I understand that the physician is ill.’
He made haste to assure her that all the men and anything else that she wanted would be at her disposal. There was an uneasy sound to his voice and Mara understood. This man was responsible for security within the castle and a death during a festival was something which concerned him intimately. She wondered for a moment what relationship he had with the Brehon of Thomond and then dismissed the thought from her mind. Tomás had been killed less than an hour after the return of the King’s guests to the main hall. The people in the main hall, the King’s relations and his best friends, unlikely as it seemed, were the only ones who could be guilty of the crime.
‘If I could just borrow two of your men,’ she requested. ‘That’s really all that I need.’
She thought of asking for one of the trestle stands and its boards, also, but decided that was unfair. In all probability, the table would be taken back and used for dining on later on in the evening. There might be a stone slab down in the basement that could be used.
Without making further demands, she led the way down the stairs to the basement and inserted the key in the lock.
There was a ghastly damp chill that seemed to rush out from the basement once the door was opened. Easy to see how legends about ghosts could arise. However, to Mara’s relief, there was no smell of corruption. The two men stood back and she advanced in, trying to hide a shudder as a scampering noise told her that there had been a rat close by. One of the men raised his lantern and she saw the long bald tail disappear through a grating at the far side of the cellar.
‘Leads to the river, Brehon,’ said one of the men, picking up a stone and firing it in the direction of the grating. ‘They used to get rid of prisoners down there in the old days, I have heard tell,’ he added. He went across the damp flags that paved the nearest third of the room, his iron-tipped boots striking sharp echoes from the stones. ‘It’s got a latch on this side,’ he said holding up his lantern when they reached the iron grille, ‘but you can see, Brehon, that the grid is too small for anyone to put a hand through. They say that King Conor na Srona got rid of many an enemy down through this grating. Used to wait until high tide came and then the minute it began to ebb they would chuck the bodies through and the river would carry them down to the sea.’
‘Really,’ said Mara. She wondered whether her husband’s uncle was really as bloodthirsty as that, or whether the man was just delaying the evil hour when the corpse had to be taken from the lead-lined box.
The captain of the guard, she noticed, had taken the precaution of locking the box, too. It took a long time for it to be unlocked – she suspected that the hand which held the key trembled somewhat, but when at last the lid was thrown back she heard them sigh with relief.
‘Stiff as a poker, Brehon.’
‘No doing anything with that body for a few hours, Brehon.’
‘It’s the cold that does it – you remember, Peadar, when we fought that battle in snow – there was one fellow, two days later, out there on the field, still with his arm stretched out and a throwing knife clenched in his hand.’
‘Might never unstiffen,’ said Peadar hopefully. ‘Might be best to bury him in this box – good as any coffin – better than most.’
‘Is there any possibility of getting at his pouch?’ queried Mara. Perhaps the men were right, she thought, though conscious of her weakness. Perhaps the best thing would be to bury him as he was. Donogh O’Hickey had taken to his bed and was unlikely to rise from it before the body was safely underground. After all, she argued with herself, inspecting the wound would not tell much to an untrained person like herself.
‘I’ll see if I can get that out for you, Brehon.’ Peadar sounded cheerful at that lesser demand and cautiously tried to insert his hand into the fold where the body had been bent in two in order to accommodate it to the short square shape of the box.
It was no good, though. The body was locked into position like a piece of forged iron and there seemed no possibility of getting at the pouch. The men had lifted in the shoulders, head and trunk, and then bent the pliable hips and legs over it.
‘No, it’s not possible,’ said Mara standing back. There was an awful indignity about the way that the body had been crammed into the box and she felt that she could not bear to see it again. Peadar’s suggestion was probably the right one. The man should probably be left as he was and buried with a few ceremonial cloths draped over the cask.
Ten
Díre
(Text on Honour Prices)
Every person in the kingdom has an honour price. This honour price is a measure of status in the kingdom. Women without a trade or a profession take the honour price of their husband or father. Children under the age of seventeen have the honour price of their father. A Brehon has to know the honour prices of all. No judgement can be given, no fine imposed without this knowledge as the first part of the fine is the honour price.
List of Fines:
The honour price of a king is: forty-two séts, or twenty-one milch cows, or twenty-one ounces of silver.
The honour price of a Brehon is: sixteen séts, or eight milch cows, or eight ounces of silver.
The honour price of a taoiseach (chieftain) is: ten séts, or five ounces of silver, or five milch cows.
The honour price of a physician is: seven séts, or four milch cows or three-and-a-half ounces of silver.
The honour price of a blacksmith is: seven séts, or four milch cows or three-and-a-half ounces of silver.
The honour price of a goldsmith is: seven séts, or four milch cows or three-and-a-half ounces of silver.
The honour price of a silversmith is: seven séts, or four milch cows or three-and-a-half ounces of silver, or four cows.
The honour price of a wheelwright is: seven sets, or four milch cows or three-and-a-half ounces of silver.
The honour price of a boaire (strong farmer) is: three séts, or two milch cows or one-and-a-half ounces of silver.
The honour price of an ocaire (small farmer) is: one sét or one heifer, or half an ounce of silver.
‘Are those children still out in that fog?’ Mara joined the guards who were standing on ceremonial duty beside the big front door. She peered out. It was bitterly cold – colder than frost, even colder than snow, she thought and was relieved when one of the men shook his head.
‘No, Brehon, you’ve just missed them. They went in. Young Cormac wanted to pull up the drawbridge, but we told him to ask the King first.’ The man had a grin on his face and Mara guessed that he wouldn’t be surprised if Turlough, accompanied by a triumphant Cormac, appeared with an apologetic request for the drawbridge to be raised.
The moat, she thought, was constructed in more warlike times. It was part of the former castle which had been burned down, rebuilt, attacked, demolished through a few hundred years. There had been a time when the clans had all been at each other’s throats, when O’Brien had fought against MacNamara and MacNamara against O’Brien, and the castle continually changed ownership between those powerful clans. It had even been briefly possessed by the invaders from England. The Norman Thomas de Clare had established his family there and had built a villa
ge around it. The attacks had gone on with the native Irish trying to repossess the castle and even its stately hall had seen the shedding of blood – there was one grisly story when Brian Ruadh O’Brien sought Norman-English help against his nephew Turlough Mór. Mara remembered the story, chanted by Aengus MacCraith on all state occasions.
‘After they had poured their blood into the same vessel and after they had pledged Christ’s friendship and they had exchanged mutual vows by the relics, bells and crosiers of Munster, the Norman de Clare had Brian Ruadh turn asunder by horses and within the hall itself, his head was cut off and his body gibbeted on a tall post outside the castle.’
But now Turlough had managed to get the love and loyalty of all of the warlike clans within the three kingdoms: MacNamara, MacMahon, O’Lochlainn, O’Connor, O’Nealain and MacGorman all gave him fealty and military service. The enemy now was outside his three kingdoms: the English and those that they had planted in Irish soil: the Earls of Kildare and Ormond in the east of the country and the Earl of Desmond in the south. They and their relations were now the enemy of such like Turlough Donn O’Brien who sought to live their lives according to the customs and laws of their Gaelic ancestors.
Mara peered through the mist at the sweep of the moat, at the high wall that encircled the small village, at the drawbridge and the murder hole and smiled at the men.
‘I hope you have promised to call Cormac if there is an assault made on the castle,’ she said with a smile and they laughed with her, glad of the interlude during the boredom of their spell on guard. How did they occupy the time, she wondered? She had seen the dice in one man’s hand, but that must get boring also. She went up the stairs within the north-eastern tower feeling glad that, despite moments like that in the basement of the castle, she had such an interesting occupation that engaged all of her mind. The solar, to her relief, was empty of quarrelling youngsters. She would sit quietly by herself, not think and not try to work matters out; just let ideas and impressions float across her mind and see whether a name came up that would lead her to solving this murder. She went across to the fireplace to insert another few small sections of branches and logs under the glowing tree trunk that stayed alight night and day, suspended across the hearth, resting on iron stands.
Fionn O’Brien, she noticed, glancing down, was in the great hall, talking animatedly with Turlough, though there was no sign of his wife, Aideen. Fionn, she thought, as she went back to draw a cushioned chair near to the fire, was spending a lot of time this Christmas in Turlough’s company, eagerly agreeing with everything he said and striving to please and amuse his clan chieftain. Turlough, though preferring the company of his old friend Maccon MacMahon, was good-natured and willing to be entertained.
Where did Fionn come in the complicated family tree of the O’Brien royalty? Certainly he would be descended from the same great-grandfather and this would give him the possibility of being elected as tánaiste if anything happened to the King’s eldest son, the delicate Conor. The vultures begin to gather, thought Mara. Conor was not looking at all well. His hollow cough sounded continuously through the stairways, and unless summoned for meals, he and Ellice seemed to spend most of their time in their own quarters: the south solar and the bedroom beside it which were positioned at the top of the south-eastern tower. The clan were uneasy; he was not going to be a charismatic, courageous leader like his father, King Turlough Donn. They would not be human if they were not already looking for someone else. A window of opportunity had opened up for other junior members of the clan – always providing that the present King would approve of the candidate and, because he loved him very dearly, that the feelings of his son, Conor, were not hurt by the substitution.
If that someone else were Conor’s own son Raour, the probability was strong that Conor would be happy to stand back and to allow the youngster to take his place. But Conor’s opinion would matter little to the clan – it was the opinion of his grandfather, Turlough Donn, which would be of importance and if Turlough found out about the title of baron which was bestowed by the English King Henry VIII on the young man when he was in London, then wild horses would not get him to consent to the naming of Raour as tánaiste and the clan would take seriously an objection from a king as popular as Turlough.
And what about Fionn O’Brien? Was there any reason why he should or should not be a suitable candidate? Had the malicious Brehon MacClancy found out anything about him?
Mara’s mind was busy with these questions as she sat and gazed into the fire and for a minute the sharp crack from behind where she sat passed almost unnoticed.
A bird’s beak, she thought, and then thought again. The short winter’s day had drawn to a close and few birds would still be flying free, but would have taken shelter for the night. She was already on her feet when a sharp draught of cold, foggy air was drawn across the room towards the blazing fire. Mara picked up a candle branch from its place beside the fire and walked across the room, lighting another cluster of candles on a small table near the window. Instinctively she avoided the loose tile which gave entrance to the chute descending to the murder hole and put her candles down on the windowsill.
There was no doubt that one of the small panes of glass had been shattered, and no doubt, either, what had shattered it.
Lying on a cushion beside the window was a small lightweight knife. It transfixed a piece of vellum; she recognized it as one of the scrap pieces resulting from the trimming of large pieces to document shape. These were distributed to the scholars and they usually had a few in their pouches. This one bore the word ‘HELP!’ written in charcoal.
Mara instantly flung open the window and leaned out. The fog was worse, but there was an unmistakable cry of help from across the yard between the castle and the barns and stables. There seemed to be something white fluttering from the apex of the barn roof and once again the cry of ‘Help’ penetrated the dense fog.
This time she recognized the voice. It was Cormac’s, and a secondary less decisive call was probably Finbar’s voice.
‘Help, we’ve been locked in!’ came Cormac’s voice.
Instantly Mara pulled up the tiled board near her feet. The murder hole was dark and smelled of mould and probably of mice or rats, she thought. She didn’t hesitate, however, but pitching her voice as well as she could into the dark rounded funnel, she yelled: ‘The King’s son has been locked in the barn.’
She heard a confused noise of men’s voices, but did not wait any longer. Picking up her skirt with one hand she was through the door and clattering down the spiral staircase. When she reached the next level, Rosta emerged from the kitchen, ladle in hand, looking at her with surprise.
‘There’s something wrong,’ she gasped. ‘Cormac has been locked in the barn. Get the King.’
And if this turned out to be one of Cormac’s pranks, then so much the worse for him, she thought as she ran down the next flight of stairs. And yet, she didn’t think so. There had been a note of panic in the voice of her too-courageous son. She did not hesitate when she came to the main guard hall. It would be full of men, but she had already communicated with the men on guard and it was urgent to get Cormac from that barn. As the King’s youngest son, he might be thought a bargaining pawn for any enemy.
And if an enemy were to attack Bunratty Castle, this evening of freezing fog, while the Christmas festivities were going on, it might be an ideal time to catch the garrison off guard.
There would be, she thought as she whirled down the last circular set of steps, a guard on the gate at the bridge across the moat, but it would be a perfunctory affair, and there might have been a distraction.
As she reached the drawbridge, she heard a shout. It was Cormac’s unmistakable voice.
‘He’s gone, Brehon,’ he yelled at the sight of his mother. ‘He’s gone. He locked us in the barn and he took the twins.’
Instantly Mara understood. One part of her wanted to go and to make sure that Cormac was unhurt, that no one had injured him
, or that he hadn’t fallen in his frantic attempts to escape from the loft of the huge barn, but his voice was clear and strong and she could not let his cleverness and quick thinking go for naught.
‘Quick,’ she shouted to the men that had followed her from the castle. ‘Quick, go to the gate. Quick, stop him, stop Maccon MacMahon.’
Somewhere at the back of the crowd, she heard Turlough’s voice and then the captain of the guard bellowing orders. They would be getting into fight formation, but she ignored them. This was no attack, she realized thankfully. But at the same time she was filled with fury. That any man would dare to disobey her commandment, would leave the castle when she had specifically forbidden any guests to depart before she gave permission, this brought the energy of youth to her legs and she ran as fast as she could down the little cobbled street between the houses.
There was something on the bridge. She could see the forms through the mist as she rounded the churchyard. An unmistakable neigh came from one horse and then was answered by another. A voice was raised, shouting angrily, and she recognized the powerful bass tones of Maccon MacMahon, now filled with fury. But he was still on this side of the gate. Thankfully, she slowed down and gulped some air into her chest. There were footsteps behind her and Cormac, accompanied as always by Art, caught up with her.
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 11
