Eye of the Law

by Cora Harrison

  There was a twinkle in his eye and Mara smiled to herself. This Brian O’Brien would probably indulge in a spot of piracy himself, she guessed. However, unless a complaint were made, it was not anything that she had to investigate.

  ‘Pirates!’ exclaimed Shane, open-mouthed. ‘Hugh, did you hear that? The man that we are going to stay with fights pirates!’

  ‘The currach has turned around and is going back towards the island,’ yelled Enda.

  ‘We’ll never catch up with it now,’ said Moylan in disgusted tones.

  ‘We’ll bet which one of them gets to the island first – the O’Brien of Aran or the men in the currach,’ said Enda, always one to abandon a useless cause. ‘Do you want to have a go at the rudder, Fachtnan, while I get out a piece of vellum and take the bets?’

  ‘Come what may, they’ll be ready for us on the island when we arrive,’ said Mara softly, looking out across the waves.

  And one family will know that they have now lost two of its members, she added silently to herself as she watched the busy and animated crowd, Turlough and his two bodyguards amongst them, shouting and cheering for their choice.

  The news had certainly spread by the time that their boat had docked. A group of women, keening gently, knelt by the two salt-stained coffins on the massive stone pier. As far as the eye could see, other women in their red léinte knelt on the white sand and the men, in their brown cloaks, stood in small groups on the beach or the dunes. From the boat they looked like statues but once she stepped ashore Mara could hear the rhythmic sound of the prayers of the rosary. The faces of her scholars were now solemn and the men-at-arms shuffled their feet uneasily on the pier as they waited for directions from their king.

  Then the priest came down the hill. He was a young man and his walk had the springing agility of one born to these rocky places. His face was fresh but his bearing was pompous and self-satisfied and he trod with the assurance of a man who knew his worth was above that of those around. Mara watched him with disfavour as he pushed a small child out of his way and did not look back when the little boy stumbled and cried. The mother snatched up the child and stilled its wailing against her shoulder but no one else seemed to take notice.

  One by one they came forward and took up places around the coffin. No one looked at the new arrivals from the mainland or greeted them; all of the concentration was on the two coffins. Eight men came forward, four for each coffin. Others helped and soon the coffins were placed on the shoulders, Becan first, and then the coffin of Iarla. Mara knew that because the second coffin, despite Ardal and Liam’s efforts, still bore traces of having been in the ground for days. Turlough spoke a few words to his men-at-arms and they came forward and formed a guard of honour on either side of the coffin.

  And then the crowd hesitated. Another man was coming down the hill, walking at fast pace, leaping from rock to rock. He was followed by some men-at-arms, the sunlight glinting on the swords by their sides.

  ‘There’s Brian the Spaniard,’ whispered Turlough as the dark-faced man, bronzed by the winds of the Atlantic, came through the crowd that parted for him.

  The taoiseach looked older, thought Mara. It was six years since she had seen him at Thomond and the very black hair was now streaked with grey. His dark-brown eyes swept over the crowd and landed on Turlough and Mara. After a brief prayer at the coffins he made his way over to them.

  ‘You’re welcome, you’re welcome both of you.’ Brian’s words were warm, but his face retained its proud, aloof expression. He was much darker than any of the O’Brien clan that Mara knew, but his high-bridged fleshy nose reminded her of Teige and he had the O’Brien domed forehead. ‘We’ve a room prepared for you and we’ll feed you a bit of fish for your supper. There’s my place up there.’

  It was impossible to miss the castle, among all the small, thatched cottages. It was built within the sheltering walls of an old fort on top of the hill on the south-eastern flank above them. It was quite a small castle, only two stories high but it dominated the inhabited part of the island and the harbour below.

  ‘I’ll see you later then.’ Brian gave a quick inclination of his head, first to Turlough, then to Mara, and then went forward and began to talk to a tall, grey-haired woman. This was Becan’s wife, thought Mara, and the three young women standing behind her were, no doubt, Iarla’s sisters, the daughters of Étain. They probably looked like their mother, though perhaps without her spirit, thought Mara, glancing surreptitiously at the red-gold hair that hung around the shoulders of each of the pale-faced, silent girls. Becan’s wife, Babhinn, had probably once been red-haired, but now her beauty had faded. Would Étain, if she were still alive, have looked like her sister? thought Mara sadly. Would her red hair, hair as red as the precious garnet in Turlough’s ring, have turned grey, her exquisite fair skin have been roughened and coarsened to a blotchy red by the salt winds and the fierce light on this barren island? Would her straight back now be bowed by incessant labour and her nimble feet turned swollen and clumsy? These island women worked hard – it was a life of incessant toil for them and a life of danger and early death for their husbands, brothers and sons who tried to snatch the fruits of the sea from the mountainous waves.

  There seemed to be little curiosity about the king and the Brehon from the islanders; this was an island funeral and it would be carried out according to their own ancient rituals. The crowd parted for the priest who shook holy water over the coffins and then stood back while the mourners and their families formed into a long line behind the coffin; only then did friends and neighbours join the procession.

  Mara gestured to her own scholars to stand apart. When the last person was in place, she and Turlough took up their position and the bodyguards, the law-school scholars and Nuala lined up behind them.

  Little by little the people began to move, following the men bearing the coffin. Even without a weight to carry, it was slow going as the sand was very deep and powder fine. The islanders, in their bare feet or with soft goatskins bound around their feet, walked more easily than those from the mainland in their heavy boots, but even for them the ground was difficult with ankle-wrenching stones buried here and there beneath the sand.

  The island, thought Mara as she struggled on through the sand, looked rather like a lower version of the mountain of Mullaghmore. The limestone rock was terraced in exactly the same way, though the terraces here were not barren and deserted except for a few goats or sheep, but lined with small, white-washed, thatched cottages, each with a neat garden of vegetables beside or in front of it. There was an extraordinary amount of stone taken out of the ground in order to have these small patches of fertility. From a distance the place looked like a giant tilted chessboard with thousands of walls outlining small squares. In the past when she had come here, either by herself or with her father, there had been a constant movement of figures carrying baskets of seaweed or of sand, both of which, when mixed, eventually formed the soil in the small fields and gardens where they grew their vegetables or small crops of rye. These small, fertile places were treasured; elsewhere, as on the high Burren, grass only grew in the grykes between the limestone rock slabs and the men and women spared no effort to add to their fertility and to shelter them with high walls against the Atlantic winds.

  But today no one was working; everyone on the island was at the funeral. Prayers rose up, deep and fervent, the keening women cried out like seagulls and the chains of rough, hand-made rosary beads were busily moved, bead by bead, through work-roughened hands.

  ‘They’ll stop here,’ whispered Turlough, taking Mara’s arm as she half-stumbled on a buried stone. She waited and looked with puzzlement at the mourners. They were nowhere near to the graveyard yet.

  Ahead of them was a flat slab of stone and beside it a large cairn or pile of loose stones. The coffins were laid on the slab and then the entire funeral procession searched in the sand and the nearby field until they found a stone and placed it on top of the cairn with a muttered prayer
for the souls of the deceased. After that they formed up in a solemn procession going sunwise around the cairn. Around and around the red léinte and the black cloaks went, like some vast wheel turning endlessly in the grip of a fast-flowing river.

  No one looked around at the visitors; the islanders were all caught up in their sad ritual, swaying and muttering prayers while waiting their turn to add a stone to the strange wayside cairn. The scholars waited respectfully and then they in their turn placed a stone on the cairn. How long had this ritual been going on for? wondered Mara, looking at the height of the mound and then frowning at Aidan who was about to pick up the largest stone that he could find – everyone else, she noticed, was seeking out small round stones. Fachtnan muttered something in Aidan’s ear and he, in his turn, found a similar pebble.

  The midday sun was in their eyes as they moved on again, up the hill towards the graveyard. The intensity of light that bounced off the white limestone and off the pale gold of the sand was almost painful. Mara kept her eyes fixed on the ground as she trudged up the hill at the back of the funeral procession. For a moment she hardly noticed that a small, red-haired boy had fallen back and was walking beside her, looking intently into her face. Then she smiled at him.

  ‘The priest wants to talk to you after the service is over,’ he said softly, and then he was off, burrowing his way back through the crowd like a small eel through wet sand, before Mara could reply.

  Turlough looked down. It was obvious that he had caught the boy’s words.

  ‘Well, his reverence can seek me out then.’ Mara gave a shrug. She had other things on her mind, other people to talk to. She did not care for the look of that complacent young man.

  ‘Another stop here,’ whispered Turlough as the head of the procession drew level with another cairn. This would be a welcome rest for the coffin bearers as they had started to climb the steep hill. Once again the stones were gathered and once again the mourners encircled the cairn in the sunwise direction, murmuring their prayers.

  The grave had been dug, but only just, when the funeral procession reached the small church of St Caomhain. The diggers were still leaning on their shovels and pickaxes, sweat pouring down their faces and soaking their léinte. Every man had laid his cloak on a small bank at the side. There was little soil here; the huge pile of stones showed the difficulties. The coffins were lowered down with ropes and then the widow, children and the sisters of the dead men threw their handfuls of soil and by the time everyone else of the family – most of the islanders – had added their handful there was very little to be shovelled over the graves. The stones that had been taken out were now piled on top of the grave, heaviest first and by the time that the work was finished there was a mound like a cairn on top of the two coffins.

  ‘That will sink down in a few weeks,’ murmured Turlough, watching with interest the ceremony of these far-flung people of his kingdom.

  Mara nodded. She could see how the other stone-covered graves had fallen down to almost the level of the ground around. The priest gave his last blessing and then looked over towards the Brehon. She looked blandly back. Now was not the moment for any public announcement she decided. That would have to wait until tomorrow when the grief was less raw-edged and the people were receptive to her words. Perhaps Brian the Spaniard would be useful in interpreting the mood of his island people. For now she would behave as an ordinary mourner and just quietly offer her condolences and then leave. Turning away from the graveside, she made her way over to where Becan’s wife, Bebhinn stood, surrounded by her children and her three nieces.

  ‘I’m sorry for your trouble.’ Mara repeated the words that she had heard murmured over and over again during the past quarter of an hour.

  Bebhinn nodded mechanically and then suddenly her grey eyes were alert and she held out her hand to stop Mara moving on.

  ‘I must speak to you, Brehon,’ she muttered.

  The grip on Mara’s wrist was almost painful and the woman’s grey eyes were suddenly alert and focussed.

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Mara. ‘I want to speak to you too. Not now, perhaps. Tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll be staying at the castle.’ It was more an assertion than a question, but Mara nodded.

  ‘Do you see that field up there, to the left of the castle, the one with the black and white cow and calf?’ Bebhinn didn’t wait for Mara’s assent, but hurried on. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow morning as soon as the sun comes up. I’ll have to milk the cow.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Mara quietly, and she moved on to allow the scholars to mutter their expressions of sorrow before joining Turlough.

  ‘Do you want to see the priest?’ he asked. ‘He’s over there, talking to one of Iarla’s sisters.’

  Mara studied the young priest attentively for a few minutes. Unlike most of the islanders he was plump, his sand-coloured hair glossy and his skin pale. He saw her looking but turned away with a slow deliberation, continuing his conversation in a leisurely manner. She shrugged; no doubt he was used to the islanders responding instantly to him, but she owed him no allegiance. He had meddled with the truth; she would be surprised if he had not been aware of the correct paternity of Iarla.

  ‘Let’s go up to the castle,’ she said impatiently. ‘I can do no more here until tomorrow.’

  Thirteen

  Muirbretha

  (Sea-judgements)

  All judges should be well-versed in the matter of sea-judgements and great depths.

  Owners of flotsam are free of claim in sea-judgements.

  Owners of jetsam are free from claim in sea-judgements.

  Owners of goods carried off by a stream and deposited in the sea are also free from claim in sea-judgements.

  Goods may not be taken from ships or boats unless these have been abandoned.

  ‘Bother,’ said Mara in a low voice.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Turlough joined her at the window.

  ‘That relation of yours has asked the priest to supper tonight.’

  ‘Well,’ said Turlough judicially, ‘what did you expect? He probably dines at the castle most nights by the look of him. Brian likes an audience and he would regard most of the islanders as beneath him in status. What do you think of the chamber?’

  ‘Very opulent.’ Mara swept a quick glance across the room before turning back to the window again. There was something about this priest that puzzled her – something familiar about his features. She shook her head angrily, but no enlightenment came, so she turned back to Turlough.

  ‘Your cousin certainly is a man of wealth,’ she said, looking at the hanging carpets, the carved chairs, and the elaborately sculpted bed head. ‘How does he afford all this from a set of three barren islands?’ She walked forward and inspected a painted leather hanging. ‘Spanish,’ she remarked with a nod, frowning at Turlough’s grin. ‘It’s just thievery,’ she added. ‘He’d better not expect any mercy from me if one of these ship masters brings a case against him.’

  ‘They won’t.’ Turlough sounded confident. ‘Think of it as a fee for a service. Brian escorts them in safety into Galway harbour – even puts one of his own men on board if they are unsure of the way through the rocks. Then he relieves them of a little of their cargo. It happens all over the place. O’Malley of the Boats, up there in Mayo, he takes much more.’

  ‘Well, O’Malley of the Boats is not under my jurisdiction; Brian the Spaniard is,’ said Mara firmly, but she guessed that the tradition was too long-standing for her to be able to do anything about it. Unless a complaint was made then Brehon law had no powers to interfere. She was about to suggest that Turlough had a word with his cousin when a respectful knock sounded at the door.

  Turlough eagerly crossed the room and flung the door open, glad to be finished with the subject of piracy, guessed Mara. Turlough was always easy to read. Shane was standing there.

  Turlough greeted him boisterously. ‘Well, what have you been doing with yourself, young Shane? Getting up to mischief?’
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  ‘No, my lord.’ Shane was quite at his ease, used to the king and his teasing. ‘We’ve all been helping with putting up the trestle tables in the hall – all of us except Enda and he went off into the kitchen to help there.’

  Probably hungry, surmised Mara, fastening the neck of her gown with her best brooch of silver and gold wires twisted together and then slinging her fur-lined cloak over her shoulders. The air was colder on this exposed island and the inhabitants of the castle would be used to an outdoor life; she doubted whether the hall was as warm as her own sitting room back at Cahermacnaghten.

  ‘Some of the trestle boards were taken from wrecked Spanish ships, but we put the best ones on the side of the table where you will be sitting, my lord, and you, Brehon, and we covered them with linen cloths so you would never know that they are riddled with holes from the sea worm.’ Shane chatted on happily as they went down the winding stairway.

  Fachtnan and Nuala were coming in through the open door; Nuala’s cheeks were flushed with the combination of wind and sun. She looked very happy and very relaxed. Mara was glad that she had brought her. She gazed at the boy and girl with satisfaction and then her eyes left them and went to the young priest who was just behind them. Now was the moment that he could approach her, but he had decided that this opportunity was not the right one because he passed them both with a bowed head and a murmured greeting.

  ‘Come in, my lord, and you, Brehon, come in, come in and be very welcome. It’s wonderful to have you both. I wish I had known sometime ahead and I would have been able to offer you a decent meal. You’ll just have to have what we have ourselves.’ Brian the Spaniard was playing the part of an affable host.

  ‘Then you must live well, judging by the look of your table,’ said Mara with a smile.

  Not many guests were expected; there was just one table, the long trestle boards on their trestles arranged with four chairs at the top, the sides lined with benches and a few stools at the bottom, but the snowy linen cloths were covered with dishes. The centrepiece was a dish of pickled salmon, its pink and silver sides dotted with fresh thyme from the stony hillsides, there were pots of what looked like pâté, pink shrimps piled up in dishes, lifelike crabs appeared to wave tentacles from the bed of green leaves and scarlet lobsters were lined up, right down the centre of the table, resting on huge platters of beaten silver.