There was a ship at anchor in the dock. Just a flaming torch on the corner of the custom house illuminated its drooping white sails, but as the heavy, lead-lined coffin approached, lanterns were lit on board. A gangway was hastily thrown down to connect the deck with the quayside, and up its narrow pathway the coffin was carried inch by inch. No word could be heard, but some signal must have been given because the sails were hoisted and the ship began to slip out of the harbour and down towards the open sea.
Carlos Gomez was returning home to Spain on his last voyage.
Eleven
Grith Gablach
(Ranks in Society)
Each newly elected chieftain must swear to be the king’s vassal in accordance with the ancient Brehon laws, to maintain his lord’s boundaries, to escort his lord to public assemblies, to bring his own warriors to each slógad (uprising), and, in the last hour of his lord, to assist in digging the grave mound and to contribute to the death feast.
Mara was up and dressed before dawn, and as soon as the sky lightened she went to her window. For a moment she stood there, surveying the seagulls circling around above the waters of the river’s estuary. They were unusually noisy this morning – even through the dense glass of the window she could hear their strident cries. She opened the window and leaned out, enjoying their movement and excitement. They were acting as though a fishing boat were entering the harbour from the sea, but none was in sight as far as she could see. She was about to close the window again when a movement from upriver caught her eye.
A large boat, with white sails, was coming down the river. Despite the lack of wind it was moving fast. Mara could see that it was manned by a crew of young men, stripped to their shirts, and rowing so vigorously that the boat, despite its size, seemed to leap forward in the water. A minute later she was able to see more clearly – to note how the deck, the stern and the stays were all crowded with men. And to see also that a flag bearing the emblem of the Blakes, a black cat, fluttered at the prow.
Mara slipped quietly downstairs, closing the hall door noiselessly behind her and stepped out on to Lombard Street.
When she reached the crossroads she stopped and waited. Valentine Blake was coming from the town. He looked tired, with black circles under his eyes and a fuzz of unshaven stubble on his cheeks; his clothes were crumpled and his hair uncombed. Nevertheless, he had a certain air of buoyancy about him. She smiled and waved a greeting, and he crossed over towards her immediately.
‘You’re looking better this morning,’ she said, feeling sorry for him and aware of his great affection for his sister and for his sister’s son.
‘I’m feeling more hopeful,’ he admitted. ‘Did you hear all that? Did you hear the riot?’ His dark eyes burned with a look of triumph. ‘The shouting went on all night around the gaol,’ he continued. ‘Surely James must take notice of that. He has to have some mercy, even if it’s his own son. Can you understand a man like that?’
‘I suppose he feels that it is a matter of integrity to judge every man alike, whether it is his son or a stranger,’ said Mara keeping her voice dispassionate. Valentine was in a high state of nervous excitement she saw and looked as though he had had little sleep that night.
‘Integrity be damned. He’s thinking about his status as mayor,’ exploded Valentine. ‘Imagine a man putting his status before his son! I’d die first! This wasn’t murder! This was just a drunken quarrel. The boy was out of his mind – knowing nothing of what he had done; no more than if he had been a certified lunatic – and thank God, we no longer hang certified lunatics! I blame myself terribly that I didn’t get hold of him that night and dunk his head in a barrel. I thought he would just go home and sleep it off. He was dead on his feet when I saw him last, swaying around like a man who did not know where he was and then he sat down and put his head on the table in the alehouse and dropped off to sleep. I should have dragged him out and pushed him into his own house, but to be honest, I thought he might be better sobering up before he met his father. He’s very strict with that boy. The beatings he has had – over nothing much. Hope I’m not like that with my son,’ he ended, and began to walk rapidly in the direction of his castle as if he could not wait to see his baby son again.
‘Margaret is with Lawyer Bodkin and his sister,’ remarked Mara, matching her stride to his. ‘Henry sent you a note,’ she added.
‘Why didn’t she come to me? Has James turned on her now?’ He didn’t comment on the note. Had he received it, or did he come home last night long after the servants had gone to bed? Or was he only coming home just now? Mara pushed her own questions to the back of her mind and answered his.
‘He locked her into her bedroom and kept her there all day; she escaped by climbing out of a window,’ she said, watching him with interest.
‘He’s gone too far this time.’ He reddened with anger and then said impetuously, ‘She should leave him; take the boy, too. She’s welcome to a place in my household. She and Cecily get on well. I’ll come and fetch her now. What sort of state is she in?’ Without waiting for an answer he started to abuse his brother-in-law.
‘Mark my words; all James can think of is his status as mayor. He would think that if he freed Walter, or condemned him to just a couple of months in prison, then people would talk about him, would say that he had misused his position and that matters more to him than the life of his only son. He thinks it makes him special – a grand gesture like that – God, it makes me sick to think of it!’ His face paled as he added in a low voice, ‘And all because he could not bear to be called a few names.’
‘Would that have happened? Would he have been criticized for it?’ asked Mara with interest.
‘Bound to be,’ said Valentine. ‘People always pass judgement on a mayor for one reason or another. Poor old Richard Athy – when he was mayor everyone was always whispering behind his back, and even calling things out after him in the street; taunting him with spending money on his fine new home instead of repairing the streets. James couldn’t stand something like that; he’s very proud. But to condemn his own son to death – well . . .’ Valentine stared gloomily at her, his face a mask of pain and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
‘Can any more be done?’ he muttered, speaking to himself more than to Mara, but then his eyes sharpened as the large boat that Mara had seen from her bedroom window came into sight, gliding slowly now and pointing its nose in towards the docks, steering its way between barrels and tubs that were floating on the water of the harbour. Suddenly he changed. He pulled himself up to his full height, his face lit up with a smile and he went forward with both hands outstretched.
‘Who is it?’ asked Mara, keeping step with him. She was puzzled by the huge transformation in a man who, a minute before, personified despair.
‘My cousins from Menlough; I had not expected them before tomorrow; they came immediately,’ he said. ‘We’re a close family, us Blakes!’ There was a wealth of pride in his voice.
‘Would you like me to give your message to Margaret?’ Mara asked. He had glanced hesitantly at her and she guessed that he wanted to be alone to greet his relations. He would be busy with them; the large boat was packed tightly with men, tall strong-looking men, all bearing the Blake stamp of richly-coloured faces, wide smiles and dark hair. No women amongst them, she noted. A gathering of the clan, it would be seen as in a Gaelic kingdom. To support Margaret, perhaps; or was there some other reason?
‘You are very kind,’ he said, and then he strode away from her, walking confidently and with his head held high, like a chief, she thought. These Blakes of Menlough were known to her from stories that Turlough and his friends often related – a thorn in the side of Clanrickard and of the O’ Flaherty clan. Originally from the city of Galway, of course; some of the prolific family of Blakes had moved out to the shores of Lough Corrib and had established a power base there.
James Lynch, she thought, would not be too pleased to see them within his city walls.
At the to
p of Bridge Gate Street she paused for a moment. The church bell at St Nicholas’s struck the hour of eight – still very early for breakfast at the Bodkin household, she thought and turned decisively to the right away from Lombard Street and towards the town. She was curious to see the shops and the surrounding streets before the damage was cleared away.
The shopkeepers were taking down shutters and talking in low voices to each other as she passed by. Several of them looked tired and there were occasional bursts of laughter followed by whispers. Mara suspected that many of these respectable citizens had joined in the riot last night; in any case there did not appear to be damage done to the shops that she had passed when she walked down Cross Street. Gaol Street was littered with stones but the gaol itself, with its barred and shuttered windows, did not seem to have suffered much harm.
It was a different story with the fish market. That was absolutely wrecked. Of course that might well be owned by James Lynch. His business was fish; she remembered Margaret saying that her husband’s business was coal and fish. It was very likely that he would own the market, and if he did, the verdict by the citizens against his judgement was very clear.
The fish market stalls had not just been pushed over by a rabble; they had been systematically destroyed. The upright struts, left in position so that the waxed canvas coverings could be draped over them each morning, had been smashed to pieces and the heavy elm tables that were placed beneath them hacked with axes and knives. The barrels and tubs that stood by each stall for the fish were no longer there and several fishermen coming in with an early morning catch were looking around them in astonishment.
Mara recognized one of them, a young man from her own kingdom. ‘Setanta!’ she exclaimed with pleasure and went forward to meet him.
‘Brehon! How are you?’ He was not surprised to meet her. He and his wife fostered her small son, Conor, and they had known of her visit to Galway.
‘Fun and games here last night,’ he continued, looking around at the scene of devastation. ‘The sea out there is bobbing with barrels and tubs. You and the scholars were safe, I hope. No problems.’
Not looting then, thought Mara, remembering the scene in the harbour – no looting, just an expression of distaste and condemnation by the people of Galway for their previously respected mayor. What would happen next? she wondered, while assuring Setanta of their safety and well-being.
He listened courteously, but it was obvious that he had something to say so she looked at him enquiringly.
‘The O’Lochlainn came across with me this morning,’ he said, with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that they were alone. ‘He’s been staying at the Claddagh. He’d like to talk to you – he said he’d feel easier if you went back to the Burren today. He’s gone down towards Lombard Street to look for you.’
‘Well, I’d better walk back and see him,’ said Mara. Claddagh fishing village was just across the water from the harbour. Ardal would have been within sight and sound of the stirring events of the last evening. She was not surprised that he had been worried for her safety. She would have to reassure him. ‘I don’t think I’ll be going back today, though,’ she said aloud. ‘There is still unfinished business for me here in Galway.’
He bowed. To him the Brehon was a figure of authority. It was up to her to decide on what to do. ‘I’ll be here again in two days’ time,’ he said, still looking rather worried. ‘If you need any help about anything, just come down to the fish market and you’ll find me, or anyone will summon me. We fishermen have ways of getting in touch with each other.’
Mara wondered whether to talk to him about Sheedy, but decided not to mention the name. Setanta, though now married to a woman sheep-farmer in the kingdom of the Burren, was by origin and by upbringing from the kingdom of Corcomroe, and he would not recognize the name. It was over two years since Sheedy had disappeared from that part of the country. In any case it was probably best not to mention his name here. There was a constable striding around looking at the damage and angrily cross-questioning various bleary-eyed youths.
‘It’s good to know that, Setanta,’ she said quietly. ‘I have great trust in you and would not hesitate to ask you if I needed any help. Has there been any news of the king from Cahermacnaghten?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Brehon,’ he said. ‘Cliona took the two children up to see Brigid yesterday afternoon and she said that there was none. Little Cormac was asking for you – noticed you weren’t there. He’s a clever little fellow – he and Art seem to learn new things every day. I’m teaching them to play hurling now. I’ve made them a little hurley stick each.’
He was as proud of the two little boys as though they – one the son of a king and the other the son of a sheep-farmer named O’Connor – were his own. Mara hoped that soon Cliona would have a child to this generous brave man. She was glad to hear that King Turlough had not yet managed to send a messenger, though. Hopefully she would be back at the Burren before he had time to worry about her. In the meantime it was good to know that Setanta would be here again in a couple of days’ time. His loyalty to her and to King Turlough had been put to the proof last summer and he had not been found wanting.
Ardal O’Lochlainn was striding up and down the far side of Lombard Street, looking up at the windows of the Bodkin tower house. He was a reserved, but not a shy man and Mara was surprised that he had not gone to the house to enquire about her. However, she supposed, he might have felt that her host would not welcome visits from the ‘mere Irish’, as they were known, and out of respect for her he was taking his chance on meeting her. Certainly his face lit up when he saw her.
‘Glad to see that you are safe, Brehon,’ he said.
‘I met Setanta at the fish market and he told me that you were here. You’ve heard of our riot last night, have you?’
He had all the details about the death of the Spanish boy, Carlos Gomez – he even knew all about Sheedy, but he seemed to have something else to say and she looked at him enquiringly.
‘Let’s walk down towards the sea,’ she said after a minute as she saw him look up and down the narrow street and then carefully scrutinize the blank wall behind him.
There was no one around when they reached the western gate to the city. The door to Blake’s Castle was closed and there was no sign of the visitors that had arrived downriver so early in the morning. However, there was a blaze of candlelight from the windows and Mara guessed that plans were being made.
But if there was a plot to rescue young Walter from the gaol tonight, what about Sheedy?
Could she – should she – interfere in the judicial process where there was such a conflict of laws? First, she thought, I will wait to hear what Ardal has to say. He is always worth listening to.
‘It’s to do with a man called Richard Athy, an importer of horses,’ he said after a minute. And she turned a surprised face to him.
‘I know the man,’ she said, and waited for him to continue.
‘I got this information from a fisherman,’ he said, and then after a pause, ‘It may or may not be correct; it did not actually come from the fisherman himself – he is away at the moment. My information came from his daughter.’
‘No reason why it should be incorrect because of that,’ she replied. She regarded him with interest, distracted for the moment from the affairs of the city state of Galway. Why was Ardal wasting his years with all those relationships with fishermen’s daughters? she thought impatiently. There were lots of pretty O’Connor girls and O’Brien girls who would love an offer of marriage from Ardal, chieftain of the O’Lochlainns, who owned about a third of the kingdom of the Burren.
‘Well, the report was that Richard Athy, on several occasions in the last year, has been meeting the Gomez ship, somewhere off the coast of Connemara, and Spanish horses have been transferred by sling between the two ships.’
Ardal was silent for a moment and then added drily, ‘One feels that if Richard Athy had been purchasing horses in a legiti
mate way of business, then transfer into his ownership could have been managed more easily on dry land.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mara with emphasis. ‘Well, this is very interesting to me, Ardal.’ So that was perhaps what Carlos Gomez could have found out. Perhaps Walter was not the killer of the Spanish boy after all.
‘I’ll leave you now, Brehon, if you are sure that there is nothing that I can do for you. If you need me at any time then you can send a message to the Claddagh – any of the fishermen would take it for you. I’ll wait your convenience.’
‘Thank you, Ardal, I’m most grateful to you. I must stay until I can be sure that there is nothing else that I can do for poor Sheedy.’
And for Walter Lynch, she thought as she made her way back. She had no responsibility for him, but she could not turn her back on a boy who was little more than a child, and on his mother who adored him.
Everyone was at breakfast when Mara came in and apologized for her late arrival. Even Margaret was there, looking as though she had not slept, but calmer than she had been the evening before.
‘I have a message for you from your brother,’ Mara said to her. ‘He would like you to join him at Blake’s Castle.’ She said nothing about Valentine’s invitation to Margaret to make a permanent home there for herself and her son. There was no point in rousing false hopes in the woman at this stage.
‘You will stay on here, though, won’t you, Mara?’ pleaded Margaret. ‘I want to be able to talk to you, to ask your advice. I know that Walter did not do this thing. I am certain of it. I know that you will find out the truth. Henry told me all about you and how clever you are. Don’t you think that Mara could solve this murder of Carlos, Henry?’ She looked across at her host in a slightly challenging manner. Margaret, for all her gushing impulsiveness was no fool and would by now have picked up the hints that both the Bodkins thought her son was guilty as charged.
Laws in Conflict Page 14
