The body of the young man from Aran lay half concealed by an upturned willow just beside the entrance to Balor’s Cave. Mara could understand why no one had seen him before now; he was quite hidden from the lane and, in fact, the lane itself was a deserted one, running along for about a hundred yards with only a single cottage on it and ending at the cave.
‘How did you find him?’ she asked Fachtnan, after a murmured greeting to Malachy.
‘Nuala saw a flock of ravens and she thought that they might be attacking some newborn lambs so we turned down,’ he said. ‘They hadn’t attacked the body yet; probably the branches of the willow made them worry about a trap, but I stayed while Nuala went to fetch Malachy. Then when he arrived, we both went to fetch you.’
‘He was killed by someone thrusting a knife or a sharpened stick into his eye,’ announced Malachy. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the mass of blackened blood that crusted over one of the eyes. He gave a quick look around. ‘Strange, isn’t it, to find a man with only one eye outside Balor’s Cave? This will get people scared.’
‘No,’ said Nuala sharply. ‘No, it wasn’t like that at all. You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’ Malachy rounded on his daughter angrily.
‘Explain yourself, Nuala.’ Mara’s tone was crisp. Obviously relationships between father and daughter were poor, but the first consideration now had to be this murder. Let them fight it out afterwards, thought Mara irritably. Malachy’s half-suggestion that this death was due to supernatural powers was a particularly silly one, she thought, looking at him with disfavour, and then turning back to Nuala.
‘There’s not enough blood,’ said Nuala in a matter-of-fact way. She knelt on the ground beside the body. ‘If he had been stabbed in the eye while he was still living, the blood would have poured out. It would have stained his face, soaked his clothes right down the front and probably soaked the ground too. Look, this is what killed him.’
Carefully she put her hand on the shoulder and eased the stiff body over until it lay on its front and then pointed to a large circular wound on the back of the head. There was sticky black blood on the back of the neck and it had soaked into the sheepskin jacket and the white léine below.
‘I’d say that was done with a heavy club or stick,’ continued Nuala. ‘The only strange thing is that I would also have expected blood to be on the ground, but I suppose it all bled into the clothing.’ She gave a slightly dissatisfied look at the corpse and at the earth around it and then rose to her feet, dusting her hands. ‘But it has to be the head, it couldn’t be the eye. That was done after death.’
Malachy said nothing. He compressed his lips and his dark eyes were angry, but he did not disagree. Mara felt convinced by Nuala’s explanation, but thought it would not be tactful to take sides. There was enough trouble between the two of them at the moment and, although her sympathy was with Nuala, in a way Turlough was right. Why should Malachy not get married again after mourning his dead wife for two years? It was just a pity that the woman he chose had one son ready to finish his medical apprenticeship, another nearly ready and a third coming up. This would make three physicians in the family before Nuala was able to qualify.
‘I wonder whether the basket maker would lend us a cart?’ she said aloud.
She looked towards the solitary cottage; Dalagh the basket maker had a large family of children; it was surprising that neither they nor he, nor his wife, had arrived to see what was happening.
‘There’s no one there,’ said Fachtnan. ‘I went straight to the cottage when we found the body. I thought he might take a message, but he was gone and his cart is gone too. I shouted across the field to Fiachra O’Lochlainn – he’s ploughing over there – and he told me that Dalagh set off at about midday with the cart loaded up with baskets and the children went with them.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘Well, we can’t disturb Fiachra in the middle of the ploughing so you’ll have to be messenger again, Fachtnan. I think Lissylisheen is the nearest place. Would you go and ask Ardal or Liam to send a cart. Just say that there’s been an accident and that I sent you. Nuala, would you like to go with Fachtnan?’
‘You haven’t asked for the time of death.’ Nuala’s voice was sullen and she gave her father a challenging look.
‘What’s the time of death then?’ Mara hadn’t forgotten, but thought that it might be more sensitive to ask that of Malachy once Nuala had departed. Nuala in her present mood was bound to disagree with Malachy, and it was always a difficult point to know how long a murdered person had lain there by the time of discovery. There were so many factors to take into account such as the heat of the sun, the cooling properties of a wind, the stiffness of the body.
‘Early this morning,’ said Nuala promptly.
‘I agree,’ said Malachy in an off-hand way.
Nuala shot him a suspicious look.
‘Good. Well, off you go, you two,’ said Mara hurriedly. ‘I’ll stay here with the body. Malachy, would you be kind enough to go over to Kilcorney Church? Ask Father O’Byrne if we may bring Iarla over to lie in the church.’
In a moment, all three had gone and she was left alone with the body. A solitary raven flew back and perched overhead, but she ignored it. It would not attack while a living person was present. She bent down and examined the eye injury. She was inclined to think that Nuala was right. There was not a lot of blood; nevertheless, the eye was completely destroyed. Like the god Balor, Iarla was now one-eyed.
There would be a certain amount of superstitious awe about this death, she thought. Balor was an ancient Celtic god, notable for his one eye, who could kill anyone it looked upon. He lost his second eye as a child when watching his father’s druid preparing poisonous spells, the fumes of which rose into one of his eyes, but as he grew the remaining one took on strange powers. His eye was normally kept closed; it could only be opened on the battlefield by four men using a handle fitted to his eyelid. It was prophesied that he would be killed by his own grandson so he imprisoned his only daughter in a crystal tower. However, her lover climbed in, released her and she gave birth to triplets. When Balor heard of this he ordered the triplets be thrown into the ocean. One, Lugh, was saved and he defeated Balor on the battlefield. At the moment of death, Balor’s eye opened and it burned through the ground and formed a series of underground lakes and caves. This was thought to be the origin of the underground lakes and caves that lay beneath the surface of the Burren.
When Mara was a child, no one would go near Balor’s Cave. The lane was deserted and the low-lying marshy acres around it were filled with nothing but old gnarled willows. As soon as Ardal O’Lochlainn became taoiseach he set to work to reclaim this part of his inheritance. He and his steward Liam started to clear out the cave of the boulder clay that had been deposited there and when his men saw that no harm had come to them, they joined in. The boulder clay had been deposited in ridges; cabbages, leeks and onions grown on the ridges; and the cave itself, with its constantly cool temperature, was used for storage of the vegetables. The swampy ground around had been turned into a garden for sallies, or willows, and Ardal had built a cottage and installed a basket maker there. This had all happened almost twenty years ago.
And now a foul murder had taken place at this spot.
But why did it happen?
Mara sat on the rough bark of the upturned willow and looked with pity at the body of the young man. No one deserved a sudden violent death like this, least of all a young man on the threshold of adulthood. If any sin was committed, it lay at his mother’s door. He could not be blamed for trying his fortune once the opportunity presented itself. He had arrived, told his story and within three days he was dead.
But who had killed him?
And was that story the reason for the murder?
For the moment only one name presented itself and that thought was so shocking and so unlikely that she felt reluctant to grapple with it. She got to her feet and began to pace up and down, but the
name could not be dislodged. Only Ardal O’Lochlainn benefited from this death. He had not wanted this young man, had not believed that Iarla was his son.
‘No sign of the priest, but the church is open.’ Malachy had approached quietly. ‘I had a look,’ he continued, ‘and the trestle and planks are there since the burial of old Pádraig last Tuesday. We can still bring the body to the church and perhaps get someone to stay until the priest arrives.’
‘There’s the cart coming now.’ Mara went to the head of the laneway and stood watching. One of Ardal’s workers drove it; he and Liam followed on horseback.
‘This is a shocking thing, Brehon.’ Ardal swung his leg neatly over the horse’s back and tossed the reins to Liam. His face looked concerned, not devastated, but then he had no real reason to mourn the death of this unexpected new arrival.
‘What happened? Was it a fight?’ He walked straight over and stood looking down. ‘Poor lad,’ he added, not waiting for an answer to his questions. There was a genuine-sounding note of pity in his voice.
‘Shall we bring him to Kilcorney Church, Brehon?’ Liam had now dismounted. ‘There’s no reason to bring him over to Noughaval, is there? What do you think, my lord?’
‘What do you think, Brehon?’ Ardal looked at her doubtfully.
Noughaval was the church where the O’Lochlainn family were buried. No, thought Mara, there was no real reason to bring this young Iarla to Noughaval. Nothing had been ratified about his birth and his birthright. That would have been done at Poulnabrone. Now there was no necessity to send Fachtnan and Enda over to Aran on a fact-finding mission, no necessity for Mara to consult her law texts and, perhaps, to be forced into giving a verdict that went against her commonsense and intuition. Things had worked out well, except for the awful reality of a brutal and unacknowledged killing and a young life cut short.
‘Kilcorney seems the obvious place,’ said Malachy quietly.
Liam looked at him with an approving nod. Ardal glanced from one to the other and then back at Mara, waiting for her consent.
‘Yes, I agree, Kilcorney is the obvious place.’ Mara looked keenly at Ardal as she said that, but his handsome face showed no strong emotion, whether of relief or regret; Ardal was his usual sensible, practical and energetic self, prepared to do anything that would help to tidy up this situation.
‘Why do you say a fight?’ she asked quietly.
Ardal looked startled. ‘Well, I assumed that was what had happened. It looks like that. Someone has stuck a dagger into him.’
Malachy, she noticed, did not mention Nuala’s assertion that the man had been killed by a blow to the head. Mara had found Nuala’s argument convincing, but she said nothing; it was for her, as Brehon of the Burren, to gather the evidence and to find the truth. For the moment she would just listen and observe. After all, it was a reasonable guess that it had been a fight. Most deaths in the kingdom occurred as a result of fights between hot-headed young men from rival clans.
‘There was some trouble at the wedding the other day.’ Liam joined them at the side of the body. ‘You remember, Brehon – the wedding at Lemeanah on Monday. This lad got very drunk. He was fighting mad. I saw him myself. The O’Brien steward told me that a couple of them had to hold him down. They doused him with a pail of water . . .’ His voice tailed off and he dropped to his knees beside the body.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ Liam’s voice was loud and harsh. He crossed himself rapidly. ‘Lord save us and bless us. Here we have a man lying outside Balor’s Cave and him with only one eye. It couldn’t be . . .’
‘You mean Balor, don’t you? Just what I was thinking myself,’ said Malachy with a quick sideways glance at Mara.
‘Not that I believe in these old stories or anything . . .’
‘No, I wouldn’t either, but . . .’
‘Strange things happen though,’ said Liam with relish. ‘There was a fellow down at Ballymurphy – this was a long time ago. Anyway, this man dug up a thorn tree in the centre of a field, a lone thorn tree, and, you wouldn’t believe this, but he was found dead in the very same field seven days later.’
‘That’s right,’ said Malachy. ‘I’ve heard that story. Of course you’ve heard the story about the man who was so drunk going home. He was seen going down this lane. People thought afterwards that he went down the cave thinking that it was his own house. Whatever happened, he never was seen again in the parish. Nothing was found of him, but two months later the pouch that he was wearing was found in the churchyard at Kilcorney.’
‘Tell me about the fight.’ It was time to put a stop to this, Mara thought, though even as she said the words, she was conscious that this fight had taken place on Monday and now it was Thursday.
‘Some of the young lads.’ Liam’s voice was off-hand, but he cast a swift glance at Ardal. ‘Not sure who they were,’ he finished.
That’s probably a lie, thought Mara. Liam knew everyone on the Burren and he was the greatest gossip in the kingdom. He would make it his business to know. And why was he looking at Ardal like that? It seemed very unlikely that Ardal would have lowered his dignity to fight with Iarla. She made a mental note to ask her scholars. The four older ones, Fachtnan, Enda, Moylan and Aidan had stayed on at the party after she had taken young Hugh and Shane home with her. Turlough had wished to ride to Thomond that night so Mara had not wanted to stay late. She had confided the four older scholars to Cumhal and had taken the two youngest and departed at the same time as Turlough.
‘So when did you see Iarla last?’ She addressed her question to both men, but Ardal looked enquiringly at Liam.
‘I had supper with him last night,’ said Liam. ‘Himself –’ he indicated Ardal with a nod of the head – ‘was still in Galway so we didn’t hold the meal for him.’
‘And what time did you get back, Ardal?’
‘Shortly after compline; I know I heard the bell from the abbey when I was near to Poulnabrone.’
Ardal’s reply was quick and decisive. Mara had a feeling that he had been ready for this question.
‘Must have been quite dark,’ she commented.
‘A great moon last night.’ Liam had the answer before Ardal said anything.
‘And neither of you saw him this morning. That was strange, surely?’
‘Not really: we saw little of him in the morning, isn’t that right, my lord? He didn’t leave his bed too early. Of course he had nothing much to do during the day so he could afford to lie on. Eating, drinking, sleeping, that’s how he’s spent the last few days.’ Liam’s tone was dismissive and contemptuous. He was not going to mourn the dead boy, that much was obvious.
‘Should the uncle be told?’ asked Ardal. ‘I can send a message by the ferryman. He’ll be making the crossing first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘That would be best,’ said Mara. An enterprising man in Doolin, in the kingdom of Corcomroe, ran a ferry a couple of times a week between Aran and the mainland. This enabled the Aran Islanders to barter fish and wool for turf, fuel that their island lacked.
‘We can delay the burial mass until he arrives,’ she added. ‘Now I think I’ll let you bring the body to the church while I go and have a word with Fiachra.’
She waited while the four of them lifted the body on to the cart and then walked briskly down the road. There was no sign of life from the basket maker’s cottage, but perhaps Fiachra might have some information.
Fiachra was in the centre of the field when she reached the hedge. He was holding the bridles of the two heavy horses that were pulling the plough through the fertile brown soil, leaving long shining ridges behind. She noticed how straight the ridges were, almost as if a ruler had made the glistening lines. She doubted whether Fiachra had seen much; work like this needed concentration, but she would wait until he came back to the edge of the field and then ask him.
‘Lovely day, Brehon!’ He was quite glad to have something to break the monotony of his task. ‘Anything wrong?’ he enquired.
‘Why do you say that?’ Mara smiled at him; he was a handsome lad with an open fresh face. Although of the same clan as Ardal, he would only be a very distant relation and yet the family stamp of the red-gold hair and the neat features was upon him too.
‘Your young scholar came over to ask about Dalagh the basket maker and now himself, the doctor and yourself are all here,’ he explained with an engaging grin.
‘You don’t miss much.’ Mara revised her original opinion. In a quiet, out-of-the way spot like this perhaps he would notice any arrivals. His testimony could be valuable.
‘The young man from the Aran Islands has been killed over there,’ she said with a nod towards the caves.
‘Oh!’ He was obviously taken aback. ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ he muttered.
‘Did you see him arrive?’ queried Mara. ‘Probably some time early this morning.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he answered readily. ‘The first movement in this place was when Dalagh and the wife and children went off about noon and then about an hour ago your scholar arrived with the physician’s daughter. I never saw that man – Iarla, is that his name, I never saw him at all today. And yet he would have had to pass me to go down that lane.’
‘Would you have seen him, though, Fiachra, if you were busy ploughing?’
‘I couldn’t have missed him, Brehon,’ explained Fiachra. ‘You heard yourself how the horses neighed when you arrived. They’d have noticed if I hadn’t.’
‘And so you’re sure that no one else passed this way today?’
‘Not a living soul, Brehon.’ Fiachra’s voice was confident and emphatic.
Three
Do Breitheamhnus for na huile chin doní gach cingtach
(On judgement of every crime which an offender commits)
A Brehon is responsible for ensuring the offender admits responsibility for the crime in front of the people of the kingdom. The Brehon is also responsible for allocating the appropriate fine and checking that it is paid within the allotted time.
Eye of the Law Page 3
