The mist was still there on the morning as they rode along the high path above the marsh, but their way was straight and narrow and the roadway enclosed with stout blackthorn hedges. They skirted the flooded plain around the Franciscan abbey at Innis, burial place of a former O’Brien king, an ancestor of Turlough’s, one of the many King Turlough O’Briens that had reigned over the people of this portion of Ireland.
And then they had turned towards the west.
It was only when they reached the Burren that the land opened out and the sight of the vast tracts of stone-paved fields made Mara’s spirits begin to rise. A brisk west wind had risen and the fog was being blown away in tatters of cloudy white. The limestone clints, each as much as ten yards in length and breadth, ever-changing in colour according to the sky and the sun and the rain, now gleamed black as wet tar. Cows strolled across them, plucking the succulent grass that grew, winter and summer, in the grykes between the clints, where the limestone retained the summer heat right through the winter months. The red and white cattle raised their heads to look from mild eyes with astonishment at the party that rode past them and the boys called out jocose greetings to them. Cormac tossed an apple from the storeroom at Bunratty Castle, but they ignored it and his own pony neighed a reproach.
It had not been a hard winter, thought Mara looking around at her native territory with a sort of hunger for its familiarity. The bare twigs of the hawthorn still bore the dark red berries and a flock of goldfinches fed noisily from the dangling cones of alder trees in the hedgerows. Some fruits of the guelder rose still remained, shining as pink as the sugared cherries in a fruit cake, and these were attacked greedily by a flock of redwings. A plump fox, its coat gleaming gold in a sudden ray of sunshine, emerged from the undergrowth with a large rat dangling from its mouth and then disappeared under the splayed stones of an ancient tomb. In this part of the west of Ireland spring came early and there were signs of birds flying in pairs and even a beginning of nest-building. As Mara watched, she saw a tiny wren with a clump of moss in its mouth investigate a possible site on a field boundary. The walls in this part of the Burren were traditionally made by vertically stacking inch-thick long slabs of stone, each of the slabs angled so that it rested against its neighbours. The resulting wall allowed the wind to be filtered safely through the cracks, but also provided wonderfully inviting spaces for small birds to build their intricate nests. Mara heaved a sigh of relief. I’m home, she thought.
‘Domhnall,’ she said impulsively, ‘would you and the other boys like to ride on ahead. I think my horse is tired and so am I. I will only hold you up. You go on. You can tell Brigid all the news. She’ll want to know everything.’
And that might be a neat way of getting out of having to relate whole story and avoiding too many penetrating questions from the woman who had been her nurse, her mother after the death of Mara’s mother, and who had run her household and looked after her scholars with unceasing devotion. Sooner or later, of course, she would have to discuss the matter with her if there was going to be any parting between herself and her husband. Brigid was devoted to Turlough, who charmed her by his enthusiastic reception of every meal put in front of him and by his deep interest in anything to do with her or her husband Cumhal.
At the thought of Turlough, Mara felt the tears come to her eyes. Now that the boys were ahead of her, galloping enthusiastically across the fields towards Lissylisheen, she was able to indulge in a few regrets – perhaps she had mishandled the business, perhaps she should have warned Turlough of what she was going to say.
But it would have been difficult. There had been no opportunity when she and Turlough could have talked together, an opportunity where she could have explained to him why she had been driven by her respect for the law to have given that verdict at the court of Bunratty. Turlough had just been too busy, too preoccupied. There had been no time where husband and wife could have communicated.
In fact, instantly after the retreat of the Knight of Glin, once the dead were buried and the castle wall shored up and repaired, Turlough had mustered his men, and galloped across the western parts of his territory in order to make sure that there was no attempt to seize the lands and the castle belonging to the MacMahon. He had only returned very late on the night before judgement day. She had already been in bed and in the face of his exuberance, his ardour and his desire for her; she had shirked telling him of her decision.
It had been wrong to have taken him by surprise; she knew that and she admired the dignity of his response.
And wished desperately that things could have been different.
She stopped under an old yew tree beside the tiny church of Noughaval and remained so still that a pine marten, with a splendidly bushy tail, ran cat-like down the trunk of the tree and then disappeared in a streak of dark gold and brown beneath the elaborate stone tomb of the O’Lochlainn family. Her own father was also buried in this graveyard and she dismounted from her horse and walked across to his tomb. She should say a prayer for his soul, she thought, but the words would not come. Instead she just stood there and allowed her mind to calm.
This is the law, she quoted to herself sadly, remembering what she had memorized as a child within her father’s law school. ‘No Brehon of the Gaedhil is able to abrogate any law that is found within the Seánchas Mór. In it were established laws for king and vassal, for queen and subject, chief and dependant, wealthy and poor.’
These were the words. She was a servant of the law and she could not change it to fit her individual circumstances. She had done the right thing so far as the law was concerned, but her marriage, her relationship with Turlough – had she served that well?
By the time that she reached sight of her law school, the faithful Brigid was standing at the gate looking anxiously down the road. By her worried looks, Mara guessed that she had heard the whole story of the judgement day at Bunratty and the verdicts that had been declared.
Cormac and Art, sticks in hands, were walking in the opposite direction down the road in the company of Cumhal. The sound of their high excited voices came to her and she knew that they were glad to be home. She guessed that they would be fetching the cows home for the night from their grazing on the High Burren, a mountainous plateau of flat rock which stretched from Cahermacnaghten right across to beyond the judgement place at Poulnabrone. Mara was glad to see them go. Cormac, adoring of his kingly father, had not spoken a word to his mother ever since the judgement at Bunratty on the morning before. Art, Cormac’s foster-brother and loyal friend, had also been uneasy with her, Finbar and Slevin, too, had been embarrassed and unsure. Only Domhnall had been approving, she sensed; and admired his thorough understanding of the laws in which she had instructed him for the past five years.
But now Brigid had to be faced and Mara kept her head down until she could no longer have any excuse not to raise it in greeting. Brigid would know the whole story by now – she would have demanded all details from the boys. But Brigid’s first concern was for her mistress, her nursling, the Brehon whom she and her husband venerated and served.
‘You’re dead tired, alanah, I can see by your eyes; now for once in your life do as I tell you,’ scolded Brigid. ‘Cumhal has lit the fire and filled the bath and your bed is all ready for you. Don’t you worry about the boys today – there’s plenty for them to do; Cumhal will occupy them. “That will bring you all down to earth and away from all your talk of castles and battles and feastings,” that’s what I said to them. And do you know what young Domhnall said, Brehon?’ Brigid stopped to draw a breath, ‘He said to me, and not a word of lie, “It’s great to be home again, Brigid; I’ve missed your cooking!” Would you believe that? After all the excitement, all the banquets, that’s what he said. Now, just you leave that horse,’ she went on, looking anxiously up at Mara, ‘don’t you know that young Dathi will see to it? Across to your own house with you, now, and lie down before you fall down – my old mother used to say that and there wasn’t a woman in the neigh
bourhood that had the brains she had, I’ll tell you that, Brehon. You’ll be a new woman once you’ve had a good rest.’
Scolding and chattering, Brigid tucked her arm into Mara’s and led her along the short distance between the Brehon’s house and the law-school enclosure. Mara drew in a deep sigh and began to feel better. Brigid had asked for no explanations, had offered no sympathy. Her housekeeper had a simple code. While Mara’s father was alive, she and Cumhal had served him with the utmost devotion and unquestioning loyalty. After he died and Mara had become first the head of the law school and then the Brehon of the Burren; that loyalty had been transferred to the daughter. Whatsoever she did, whatever she thought, every decision that she made was right in their eyes. Though they had known her from babyhood, both Cumhal and Brigid always respectfully addressed Mara as ‘Brehon’ and only on rare occasions did an endearment like ‘alanah’ steal out.
And, of course, Brigid, as always, was right. She was bone-tired and every fibre of her body seemed to ache. Once the housekeeper had left her, Mara went quickly into the small room at the back of the house. There was a big pump there and someone had already filled the wooden bath tub with icy water from the hundred-foot-deep well. It was her father that had the well dug and she blessed his memory every time she used it. It had never gone dry – in some way that Domhnall had endeavoured to explain to her, the streams that flowed down from the mountains filled a vast lake beneath the limestone of the Burren and the water was available to the inhabitants for the labour of digging a well.
Cumhal had lit the charcoal in the iron brazier; the place was gloriously warm. Mara took the large pot of boiling water from the iron grid across the top and poured it into the cold water in the bath, testing the water with her hand until the temperature was right. Then she noticed an iron cup, filled with a dark red liquid, standing at the back of the grid. Brigid’s special elderberry cordial! She picked it up, drained it and felt the hot spiciness warm her right down to her toes. She shed her clothes and climbed into the hot water, lay back and closed her eyes. I can’t help matters, she said to herself resolutely. Now is the moment to stop thinking and worrying. After her bath she would do as Brigid suggested. Go straight up the stairs, get in under the blankets made from the fleece woven from her sheep flock and just sleep for as long as she could.
Mara slept heavily, an exhausted, nightmare-filled sleep, and then woke when it was dark. There was a platter of oaten biscuits by her bed and a glass of milk. She ate and drank mechanically and wished that she had stayed asleep. Her mind had started to become very busy. Could she have done things differently? And yet she had acted in good faith and she could not wish her actions undone – just that she had never gone to Bunratty Castle. In the past the continuous battles, attacks and defence had been a different part of Turlough’s life and not one that she had taken much interest or part in and now she desperately wished the past couple of weeks had never taken place. Her mind went around and around in circles and when dawn came she suddenly fell into a heavy sleep.
The noise of horse hoofs roused her. For a while she lay there feeling dazed and uninterested. Then she realized that this was a large party and sat up in bed. That could mean only one thing. Her heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she had thought that it might be her nearest neighbour, a local taoiseach, Ardal O’Lochlainn, but there were too many horses in the train for that. Ardal was a simple man, a man who normally rode alone or in the company of his steward, though perhaps it was possible that he had mustered a crowd of his shepherds and they were riding out to round up the sheep from his lands near the sea.
She got up, went to the window, pushed open the casement and leaned out. No, it was not Ardal. She had thought that there had been too many horses for that. The stately banners told their own tale – this was the King and his men. For a moment she felt almost like creeping out from the back entrance to her house and avoiding this meeting, but a moment’s reflection stiffened her backbone and she went rapidly to the wooden press in her room and selected a gown dyed a cherry red and slipped it over a fresh starched linen léine. She combed her hair, braided it, fastened it with pins behind the back of her neck, checked her appearance in the mirror of burnished steel, slipped on a pair of soft leather shoes and went out of the bedroom and down the stairs. It took all of her courage to lift down her fur-lined mantle from the back of the door, to slip it on and to walk resolutely down the flagstoned path to the garden gate. There she waited calmly and courageously until the horses rounded the last bend in the road.
Despite the recent events, Turlough rode with only his usual small band of guards in front of him and his two personal guards behind him. Riding beside him, though, one on either side of him, were a pair of young people and lagging behind the guards came two small figures on ponies.
‘Enda!’ exclaimed Brigid, rushing forward to greet one of the former pupils of the law school. Mara was glad to see how eagerly the golden-haired young man jumped from his horse and hugged her elderly housekeeper. Enda had always been a favourite with Brigid, even when she had deplored some aspects of his adolescent behaviour.
And then the scholars burst from the kitchen house, each with a half-eaten oat cake in hand.
‘Iontach! Are you coming to stay with us,’ shouted Cormac rushing forward and beaming exuberantly at the MacMahon twins. ‘Brigid, this is Cael and Cian – they will have a marvellous time here. Are you staying for long? Come and see my wolfhound. You didn’t believe that I have a real, live wolfhound puppy, all for myself, did you?’
Chattering wildly, Cormac escorted the twins to the stable and followed by the other boys they rushed over to the stables and released the puppy who immediately jumped up on the twins, his paws, still muddy from his early morning run. Once Cormac had greeted his father exuberantly, he, the twins and the other scholars took off across the road and began running across the limestone clints, Smoke barking and leaping and making circles around them.
When the noise died down a little, Mara looked up at the dark-haired girl beside Enda and said impulsively, ‘You are very welcome, Shona. I hope you will stay here for a long time. I will love to have your company. Brigid, we can have a room for Shona in the guesthouse, can’t we? Enda, you take her there?’
And then they were all gone, the twins and the scholars still running with the wildly excited, loudly barking puppy, Enda, with a protective hand on Shona’s elbow, escorting her over to the guesthouse, Brigid, in her element, calculating her stores for a worthy meal for all of those unexpected guests.
And Mara was left gazing up at her husband Turlough Donn O’Brien.
‘I thought this might be best thing to do with these poor children,’ said Turlough apologetically. ‘You don’t mind, do you? You could try the two little ones in your school, they get on well with Cormac, you know. Clever as a pair of eels, they are; the two of them. You’ll like them. I’ll pay their fees, of course. And Enda wants to marry Shona – that will be all right, won’t it? I’ll give the dowry – you get him qualified as a Brehon and then they can settle down.’
He gazed around him with a smile of satisfaction. ‘God, I’m hungry,’ he said. Don’t know why. We stayed overnight with Brad at Kilnaboy and he gave us a great meal, but I’d love a cup of wine now. Let’s go inside and leave these youngsters to look after themselves.’
And that, probably, thought Mara, was all that was going to be said about that time in Bunratty. Turlough was a simple man who lived for the day and seldom looked back either in repentance or in anger. She tucked her arm into his and led the way back towards the house.
‘You go in,’ she said when they came to the door. ‘I’ll just find Cumhal to open a new barrel of wine.’
‘Let’s have the glass goblets that your father brought from Rome,’ said Turlough and Mara smiled back at him before going across to the law-school enclosure. So this was going to be a celebration.
‘Cumhal,’ she called when she went in through the gate of the enclosure. ‘Would
you come and help me to open a new barrel of wine?’ While she waited for him, her mind dwelt fondly on an unopened cask of the finest burgundy, imported from France by Domhnall’s father, her daughter’s husband. It had sat quietly in the cool, damp darkness of her cellar for over a year. Now was going to be the perfect moment to broach it.
‘I’ll just fetch a flagon and be with you in a minute, Brehon,’ promised Cumhal, hurrying over to the kitchen. Brigid had left Enda to show Shona around and was calling orders to her assistant. Turlough would have a superlative meal in front of him with the greatest rapidity. Mara waited for Cumhal and then accompanied him down the steep steps to the cellar and pointed out the choice wine, lingering while Cumhal decanted it in his expert way and poured some into the flagon. She stood back and told him to precede her up the narrow staircase to the parlour in the Brehon’s house.
There were going to be no recriminations, no demands for an explanation, she thought as she followed him up the steps. Her guilt had dissipated. ‘Everything done in good faith,’ she quoted to herself from her law documents. Neither she nor Turlough would mention the matter for a while, she decided, and then the sting would have gone out of it.
There were voices from the front of the house, and she could hear Turlough’s booming laugh. A sociable man, he must have got tired of sitting alone in her parlour and gone out to look for company. When she came out of the front door, she saw that Ardal O’Lochlainn had hastened over to pay his respects to his King. They were both laughing heartily over some joke.
And then she stopped abruptly, her eyes widening with incredulity.
‘So there you are, Ardal,’ came Turlough’s voice, choked with laughter. ‘That’s the story. That’s just the way that it all happened. I got my wrist well and truly slapped by my lady judge!’
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 21
