Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery)
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Brehon Law abhors violence against women who are unable to defend themselves.
Mara slept badly that night, and such sleep as she did attain was filled with bad dreams. Towards morning she fell into a deep, heavy sleep and by the time that she opened her eyes from this, she knew that some were already stirring. A sound of hammering came from outside their window, a few shouts from men-at-arms, and then the shrill sound of swords and throwing knives being sharpened against the huge stone that stood outside the front entrance to the castle.
The place beside her in the bed was empty and cold. She sat up abruptly. Turlough was seldom an early riser when he was with her. For a moment she feared that something had happened, but then she noticed the grey light coming through the window and realized that she had just over-slept. She got out of bed, visited the latrine, shuddered at the icy chill that came up from the moat and the river beyond, rapidly replaced cushion and board and having washed her hands in the bowl placed beside it, finished off the rest of her washing with the warm water which stood in a metal flagon beside the fire.
I hate looking untidy, she thought crossly as she braided her hair by touch and thought for the hundredth time that she must suggest to Turlough that a mirror would be an addition to the King’s bedroom. She smiled slightly when she remembered Cael’s querying her lack of a veil and then suddenly, as she inserted the pins, an idea sprang into her mind. She went to her pouch and counted out some small pieces of silver. There would be a fair in the nearby village to celebrate the eve of the Epiphany and she had planned to give the scholars some spending money before they set off on their journey back to the Burren.
But for the moment she had a better use for some of the money.
Still that interview had to take a background step for the moment. She could no longer shirk this unpleasant task. She had to know whether the murdered man had the keys to his press, or whether they had been stolen by someone.
She also, if she had the courage and the determination, had to resolve the problem of the knife. Did it kill him? And, if it did, why did it spontaneously fall from the wound? Could such a slight incision be responsible for any man’s death? Or was there any chance that he had been poisoned? It would have been easier to achieve. But if so, there would be no reason for the knife in the back. Exasperated, Mara twitched her light cloak from the back of the door and draped it around her shoulders.
From the sound of the noisy voices, her scholars, she thought, were having breakfast. She peeped through the stairway wall slot but there was no sign of the physician breakfasting in the great hall. There was no help for the matter, thought Mara gritting her teeth with annoyance at the mental image of Donogh O’Hickey skulking on a sickbed. The body of Brehon MacClancy should now be quite soft and malleable and she admitted honestly to herself that as well as searching for the keys she should also slit the clothing and check on that wound which was so shallow that the knife had just fallen from its slot as the body’s fibres cooled. She wished desperately for a competent physician, but it was no good wishing for what she could not have; she had been trained from early girlhood to do her duty whether it was pleasant or unpleasant. She continued down the stairs at a slower pace, deep in thought, and knocked on the door to the captain’s room, half-hoping that he was not there, but he opened instantly, with cordial enquiries as to her health, the health of the King and her young scholars. Then he spent a few minutes discussing the music and praising the genius of the cook and eventually wound up by looking at her enquiringly.
‘I just wondered whether I could trouble you for the keys to the basement and to the coffer?’ said Mara trying to sound matter-of-fact and at ease.
‘Oh, so the physician is better,’ he stated and then with a worried note, ‘There’s no one here at the moment but I can send for some men if he wishes for help,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. Whatever was to be done down there in the basement, she felt that she would prefer to be alone with her thoughts. There was no way that she was going to undertake an in-depth examination of the body – just a quick look to solve a few queries. In her pouch she carried the throwing knife which had inflicted the deadly wound – the knife belonging to the child, Cael. She had wrapped it carefully in a piece of the oilskin which she used to protect documents from the rain, but when she had taken it out this morning she found that the slight fishy smell had disappeared. Perhaps she had imagined it. And yet the picture came to her mind of Maccon MacMahon and Enda sharing a dish of lampreys and exclaiming loudly over the delicious flavour.
Mara had great difficulty with the lock to the basement. The key was enormous and the lock so stiff that nothing happened when she turned it. Eventually she put her two hands to it and twisted as hard as she could. There was a strange, groaning creak and the door moved back grudgingly, displaying a vast piece of antique ironmongery on its inside. There was a stone lying nearby and Mara guessed that it was often used to prop the door open – she could see a tell-tale groove in the wooden door frame, no doubt a precaution in case a sudden draught slammed it closed. She placed the stone in position, but nevertheless, she took the keys from the outside lock, picked up the small lantern of perforated steel which she carried with her and held it up to the walls until she found a small ledge where she laid the keys carefully. Then she held the lantern aloft again and shone its light towards the centre of the room. But the coffer was not where she had remembered. She shone the light steadily around, moving it along each of the four walls and then around the centre of the room. But she had made no mistake. There was no sign of the box which enclosed Brehon MacClancy’s body.
And then, frowning slightly, she moved the lantern again. Something had caught her attention and a moment later she realized what had puzzled her. The gate of iron slats, where she had seen the rat with its long bald tail disappear the last time she had been in the basement, was now no longer latched shut, but was standing wide open.
And that was not all that she saw. The floor at that end of the basement was made from hammered clay and the marks showed up quite clearly – something heavy had been pushed across the floor and had disappeared into the river beyond the iron grille.
Filled with anger, Mara crossed the floor, still holding her metal lantern aloft. The floor continued to just beyond the grate and then it stopped abruptly. Below were the dark waters of the river. She peered down into the water. The tide was full, she reckoned. The last time that she had been here she had smelled wet mud and the rat had disappeared readily through the grille. Rats did swim, she knew, but thought that someone had told her that they did not like salt water. The River Shannon was tidal up to Bunratty Castle and beyond, so surely the water was salt here.
As she stood and glanced around something caught her eye, something just above her head. She moved inside the frame of the metal doorway, and looked upwards. It seemed as though some netting traps were stored there, something for fishing, she thought.
And just at that moment she thought she heard a movement from the room behind her. She spun around, shone the light from her lantern, but there was nothing to be seen. Her skin crawled. A rat, she thought. She lifted the lantern once more. One more glance, she thought, just one more look into the murky depths below her to see whether she could spot the container of her fellow Brehon’s mortal remains. And then she would go back and call for assistance. The basement was only a few feet below ground level, but the ground probably fell away at this spot and the lead-lined box, when pushed, had tumbled to the bottom of the river. She had no idea how deep the water was here, but she thought that it would not be worth the risk of trying to retrieve it. The King’s Brehon would be buried at sea, and she, Mara, would have to solve the murder of MacClancy without viewing the body once again. She turned back to go towards the door, noting with a puzzled frown that now it appeared to be closed, to be shut so tightly that no light came through it.
Then she heard a drawn-in breath and knew that she was not alone.
A
nd, at that second, something hit the side of her head and shocked her into dropping the lantern from her hand. She overbalanced and tumbled into the water below her feet. At the same moment she heard the metal grille crash closed behind her and there was a sharp click as the bolt was shot home. Sick and dizzy, she fumbled for something to hold on to, but a surge of tidal water swept up, soaking the skirts of léine, gown and cloak and she sank beneath the surface. Her mouth filled with water and she tasted the salt. There was a sudden hurried movement just beside her, and for a moment she felt sick with horror as she pictured a shoal of rats swimming vigorously beside her. She struck out violently and instinctively and her hand struck something metal – a cage, she thought, and was shocked to see large eyes looking at her from the violently churning water inside it. She tried to grasp it, tried to hook a finger through the metal, but the outgoing tide swept her helplessly away, leaving her with the impression of silver bodies and wide round eyes. Giant fish, she thought and then realized that it had been a cage full of live salmon.
Mara had never learned to swim, but she had watched her farm manager, Cumhal, teach the small boys of her school. He had waited for a hot afternoon in late spring or early summer, then taken them down to Rathborney, tied a rope around their waist, lowered them into a pool in the Rathborney River, commanded them firmly to kick their legs and flap their arms and under no circumstances were they to even think about sinking. Such was his influence over them that they usually learned to swim that same day.
Now Mara knew that her life was in her own hands and without hesitation she scooped the water with her hands and kicked frantically. Her head hurt so much from the blow that she felt weak and sick, but she was determined to make her way to the shore. I cannot and I will not drown. The words went through her head and she imagined them written on vellum in a fine Carolingian minuscule script with a goose quill dipped in thick black ink made from the bitterest gall.
He’s not going to get away with this, she thought, dizzily imagining her murderer – he or she, perhaps, had killed once, and now intended to kill again. One more stroke, she told herself as she felt the bile rising in her mouth and she wondered what would happen to her if she had to stop her frantic splashing in order to vomit.
Sink, that’s what would happen. She could not do it. She shut her mouth firmly and thought of her son and of her husband. Cormac needed her. She had given birth to him and she had to fulfil her unwritten contract to care for him, mind and body, until he was grown up. ‘Cormac’, she used the word like a sacred prayer, visualizing his face and the smell of newly washed hair, remembering his jokes, his courage, his cleverness, visualized his green eyes sparkling with fun, his disordered crop of red-blond hair. She needed to be around until he grew up. She concentrated on her son so intensely that the nausea faded and she began to feel herself move with the vigour of her exertions. Not many women have as much to live for as I do, she thought and wished that the fog was not too thick and that she could see the bank. The light was getting brighter though and she guessed that she had moved out of a tunnel of some sort and into the river that ran in front of the castle.
And then she heard something. Her ears were full of the noise of splashing water and she could not distinguish the nature of the sounds. But it seemed to come from quite near to her.
Once again Mara heard it – a splash as if a stone were hurled into the water. It made her heart stop. Her enemy must be out there, knowing where she was, able to pinpoint her exact position – the murderer couldn’t help but hear the wild, noisy splashing which was her only way of keeping afloat. Once again the noise sounded, this time quite close to her ear. A heavy stone, she thought, by the way it hit the water. If that stone hit her head, her struggles would be over. She held her breath waiting. And then she thought that she heard something else. She tried to ease her frantic splashing and spluttering and to listen.
‘Don’t!’ said a girl’s voice abruptly. ‘Don’t throw stones; that’s probably a dolphin. I love to watch them. Back at home they come to my whistle. Go inside, Raour; tell my father that you couldn’t find me. Don’t worry. I’ll be in presently.’
‘I suppose that you’re waiting for your darling Enda.’ Raour’s voice was quite clear in the foggy air. Had he really thought that the frantic struggles were those of a dolphin, or was there a more sinister reason for the bombardment with large stones? He lobbed a few more in her direction and then she heard him say sulkily, ‘I’m not telling any lies for you; your father can go and search for you himself.’
Mara strained her ears. There were no further sounds; she had not heard Raour leave; he could still be hanging resentfully around, trying to take Shona’s attention, but she hoped desperately that he had left. I will have to take a chance, she thought, as she felt the weight of her clothes drag her down.
‘Shona,’ she called softly, but there was no reply. For a moment she panicked – perhaps the girl, after her initial defiance of her father’s order, had after all, followed Raour back into the castle. Once again she splashed frantically, and then to her relief heard a soft whistle, almost like a call. The sound was nearer to the water. Shona must have walked down to the river edge. I must take a chance, thought Mara. She could feel her legs, hampered by the heavy folds of cloth, beginning to sink down below the surface. I must and I will get Shona’s attention, she thought firmly. Her belief in her own abilities had seldom failed and now it lent strength to the shout as she bellowed out the girl’s name. When she ceased she almost expected another blow to the side of her head, but her frantic splashings were the only sounds near to her.
‘Wait!’ The word was as unmistakable as it was welcome. Mara continued to beat the water, assuring herself that she could survive until Shona ran back to the castle and summoned help. And then, unbelievably, there was the sound of wood against water. Someone was rowing.
There was a small boathouse on the shore with a boat belonging to the kitchen staff there, she remembered. Either Rosta or one of his men used it to take the salmon from the net at the weir. With enormous presence of mind, Shona, instead of running for help, had taken a rowing boat out towards her. Now she could see the girl’s back, the dark braided hair and the red cloak.
‘Wait,’ came Shona’s voice again. ‘There’s a row of stakes here. They use them to tie up the boats at low tide.’ Mara waited. She was no longer worried. There seemed to be something very competent and assured about Shona’s voice and now that the boat was within her view she could see that it moved steadily and smoothly across the water.
‘Can you catch a rope if I throw it?’
Mara gasped out something that she hoped sounded like yes. Catching the rope was more difficult than she had imagined. As soon as one arm ceased its frantic clawing of the water she began to slip beneath the surface and had to quickly resume her efforts. However, on the third attempt, she succeeded in snatching it. She slumped for a moment with relief and then, hearing a voice, lifted her head completely out of the water.
‘Hold it with your two hands. I’ll tow you; don’t worry. You might get water on your face, but you won’t sink while you keep hold of the rope.’
Shona’s voice was still sensible and matter-of-fact and Mara felt a trust in the girl. Her admiration grew. No questions, no exclamations, just an immediate and practical response. A girl to rely on, thought Mara, as she heroically spat out water after a complete submerging. Clenching the rope with a grip of iron she tried to forget the cold, the awful choking from the water in her lungs, and she concentrated on Shona, willing her to have the strength to manage the boat and to take them both to safety on shore. There were a few bad minutes while the boat had to be turned, Shona using one oar in a wide circle. The movement took Mara off-guard and to her immense annoyance and humiliation dunked her under the surface once more. Why on earth didn’t anyone teach me to swim, she thought with irritation and vowed that if ever she had a girl scholar again she would certainly be taught to swim, side by side with the boys.
Mara did not answer. Her mind now had left her present predicament – she had got into the rhythm of gently flapping her feet – her shoes had long gone – and her thoughts now went to trying to put a face to the arm that wielded the club to such deadly purpose and had almost caused her to drown. Someone had overheard her words to the captain, someone had seen her as a threat, had decided to get rid of her quickly – just as the body of the murdered man had been tipped into the river. It would probably have been taken as an accident, she concluded as she clutched the rope, neatly flipped her feet and kept her head well out of the water. A person who had murdered once often did not hesitate to murder again. That had been her experience in the past. It was imperative now that he, or she, be caught and named before another victim was found dead.
Shona was making for the boathouse. She seemed to be expert at the procedure, giving the stone wall one jab with the oar in order to position herself accurately and then gliding in under the roof. Mara hung on to the rope and then when she felt the boat stop, used hand over hand to haul herself inside as well. There was a strong, fishy smell from the water and she could dimly make out the outline of a row of lobster pots.
‘I’m holding the boat steady; can you climb out onto the jetty,’ came the whisper.
One half of the boathouse was covered over with a slatted floor and Mara presumed that was the jetty. She reached out a hand and pulled herself towards it. After a struggle she managed to get a knee onto the slats and then pulled herself up and stood for a minute streaming with water, using her hands to wipe her eyes and her face. Then she knelt on the flooring and spoke near to Shona’s ear.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough,’ she said. ‘Now is there a way that I can get changed into something dry without causing any fuss? I don’t want anyone to know about this.’