‘He would have died immediately,’ said Malachy in a brisk, professional voice. ‘The knife found the spinal cord instantly. It was a lucky blow. See, it sliced through here at the back of the neck. There would have been little or no blood.’
‘Would he have died on Bealtaine night? That would have been about thirty hours ago,’ said Nuala. Her voice was level and composed, an imitation of Malachy’s professional detachment.
‘I would say he died on Bealtaine night, all right,’ continued Malachy. ‘The absence of rigor mortis, given the frosty weather last night, probably fits time of death on that night.’ He was half-talking to himself, but Nuala bent over eagerly and followed his pointing finger, nodding her head wisely. There was no doubt that the profession of a physician would suit her. She had brains, courage and integrity. She would be an asset to the community in a few years.
‘What about that boy?’ asked Malachy, wiping his hands on the grass, drying them on some cotton and then looking directly at Mara.
Mara started. ‘Boy?’ she said, faltering slightly. Did he know something? Turlough looked at her sharply and then looked back towards Malachy.
‘Yes, the boy, Feirdin MacNamara, the strange boy, he was there on Bealtaine Eve. I saw him.’
‘Yes,’ said Mara with relief. ‘I saw him, too. I wondered at his mother allowing him to come among that huge crowd, but he did not seem in any way aggressive; he was just climbing up by himself, picking up small pieces of rock and putting them in his pouch.’
‘I told Gráinne, his mother, that I thought he would be all right,’ confessed Malachy. ‘I reckoned that your warning at Poulnabrone, where you threatened a penalty of five séts, would stop anyone from teasing him. As far as I know, these fits of rage always emanated from an episode of teasing and name-calling.’
‘He’s a big, strong boy, I noticed that,’ observed the king. Nuala opened her mouth, but then shut it again. She seemed determined to be on her best behaviour. Her black brows, though, were knitted in an angry frown. Her father noticed and smiled slightly.
‘Nuala is fond of Feirdin,’ he said. ‘Feirdin finds herbs for her. Nuala has taught him all about herbs, haven’t you, Nuala? He has a great memory. He remembers all of the names.’
‘I don’t think he would murder anyone,’ said Nuala decisively. ‘He’s so gentle and kind compared to the other boys.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so either,’ said Malachy doubtfully, ‘but you never know … Colman might have threatened him in some way. He could have made him feel unsafe. That might have been enough to trigger a fit of rage.’
‘It’s possible,’ admitted Mara, but her mind moved from Feirdin to Lorcan. Colman had threatened him, had made him feel unsafe. Ardal O’Lochlainn would undoubtedly have started a lawsuit against the man if he heard of the unauthorized borrowing of his bull. In a fit of combined rage and terror, Lorcan might have murdered Colman in order to keep his secret.
‘The men with the litter are coming now, my lord,’ said one of the bodyguards. Mara went to the edge of the terrace and looked down. Donogh had not come himself but he had sent two sturdy men with a leather litter. They were obviously experienced climbers and they came up the mountainside with long, easy strides.
‘The taoiseach, the O’Lochlainn himself, was there when your message came, Brehon,’ one said to Mara when they eventually pulled themselves up on to the terrace. ‘He had just come to see if the master wanted anything in Galway. He said to tell you that he would accompany the body to Galway. They are getting a cart ready and they will bring it over to the foot of the mountain.’ Mara drew in a deep breath of relief. Ardal O’Lochlainn, brother to Donogh, was a man of both courtesy and charm. He would be a great help as he was a close friend to the Lynch family in Galway. All of his trading, imports and exports, was done through them. In fact, it was he who had recommended Colman to her law school.
‘We’ll take the body down now,’ she said, making a quick decision. ‘Father Conglach will be able to give it the last rites before the cart goes.’ He would not be too happy about the body being moved, she thought sourly, but he could have been here by now if he had wanted to. Kilcorney was nearer than Glenslade. Perhaps it might be just as well if Aidan had failed to deliver the message. She bent down and supported Colman’s head while one of Donogh’s men put his arms around the body and the other lifted the inert legs. Mara helped to straighten the legs and crossed the heavy arms over the breast. She took a piece of linen from around her shoulders and placed it over the face, hiding those accusing eyes. It seemed to her as if everyone breathed more easily once she had done this. She looked at Nuala and, seeing her own tears mirrored in the child’s eyes, she put a comforting arm around the thin shoulders.
Even with the two bodyguards helping, getting the litter down to the foot of the mountain was a painfully slow business with a few heart-stopping moments when it looked as if both the living and the dead would slide down the loose scree to a certain death below. A light shower of soft summer rain fell when they were halfway down, and it cooled them, but added to the difficulties as the smooth sheets of limestone became treacherously slippery. Once again, Turlough Donn held out his hand and once again Mara took it gratefully. She would need all of her strength before this day was over. Malachy, she noticed with pleasure, was holding Nuala’s hand, and for once Nuala did not proclaim her independence by rejecting his aid.
They could hear the rumble of the cart when they reached the foot of the mountain, and stood catching their breath while their sweat dried in the heat of the sun. A rainbow spanned the sky and Mara turned her face towards it, seeing it as some sort of symbol of the renewal of life, as the Bible promised.
The lake at the foot of the mountain was very still, its surface like a silver mirror reflecting the blues and pinks of the rainbow, broken only by a great splash of white where a score of sleeping swans rocked on its smooth surface. In front of the lake was a patch of sandy beach, golden in the midday sun. It was a bare spot, there: miles of flat rock, the lake, and the terraced slopes of Mullaghmore beyond. There was one tree: a strange tree, moulded by the western storm winds into a stiff, awkward asymmetrical shape, and beneath that tree, one hand on its bare trunk, was a small, thin figure. It was Father Conglach. No doubt he had heard them struggling down the mountainside and had decided to wait under the shade of the tree. And yet, thought Mara, how odd that he continued to stand there, very straight, very rigid, almost braced, making no move to approach them.
The cart rumbled into view. Three men accompanied it on horseback, each leading a couple of spare horses, and suddenly the peace was broken. The clatter of the iron cartwheels disturbed the swans and they reared up, their great wings spreading out as they rushed across the lake, their feet churning the water into waves. Then they were airborne, flying overhead in a great arc, the beating of their wings sounding through the quiet air like some strange music from distant pipes. The priest moved, as if suddenly released, and came forward to stand beside them as they waited for the O’Lochlainns. Father Conglach did not greet them and he did not look at the leather litter. Why not? thought Mara. Surely he could see the body there, surely that was why he had come over? Now she could see that he had a pony tied to the tree. If he came on horseback it should not have taken him so long to arrive – he must have been waiting for them to come down. King Turlough ignored him and began to stride forward to greet the O’Lochlainns, his two bodyguards marching after him. Donogh’s men placed the litter on the ground, stretched their cramped limbs and waited silently for the cart.
‘This is a sad business, Father,’ said Mara, watching his face intently. He turned his head and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. She was shocked to see that his face was heavy with sorrow and his eyes were pitted with black circles.
‘It’s Satan’s business,’ he said in a deep, harsh croak.
‘You were there on Bealtaine Eve, Father,’ said Mara. ‘Did you see anything of this matter? You mus
t have passed Wolf’s Lair on your way down.’ And so must everyone else, she thought once again. That was the easiest way to come down. Most people normally climbed the mountain on the eastern side and came down the western side. She had not properly thought about this yet. Only her antagonism towards the priest had brought it to the front of her mind. ‘Did you see anything?’ she repeated.
‘I saw too much,’ he said forbiddingly. ‘I saw unmarried men and young women with them and their behaviour was the behaviour that only the devil inspires.’
‘And Colman?’ she asked.
He did not even glance towards the figure on the leather litter. ‘He, too, was evil,’ he said bitterly.
Mara considered this. From what she had seen on that evening, Colman had been with Hugh and then had gone to talk with Muiris. She had not seen him with any girl. ‘Why do you say that, Father?’ she asked. Suddenly she was devoured with curiosity. Why didn’t anyone report Colman’s death? Someone must have seen him lying there in Wolf’s Lair. There was one guilty person; it made sense perhaps that the guilty would say nothing – though the mercy of Brehon law, unlike English law, meant that most people owned up to a murder and set about making reparation to the family. However, even if the guilty did say nothing, what about the many innocent? Why was there silence about this death? What had happened in that midnight hour?
‘Did you see Colman, Father?’ she asked. ‘Did you see him before the bonfire was lit at midnight, or afterwards?’
He muttered something inaudible and suddenly seemed to awaken to a sense of his duties. He pulled out the alb from his satchel and then the holy oils and the scrap of bog cotton. He took the linen cloth from Colman’s head and then averted his eyes hurriedly. With a grim face, Father Conglach went through the motions of muttering the Latin prayers and touching the ears, eyes, mouth and the four limbs of the dead man. Mara prayed wordlessly, and yet with a depth of sincerity that she seldom felt during Sunday Mass at Noughaval parish church. She prayed for Colman, prayed that his sins be forgiven him and that he rest in peace now – perhaps for the first time in his driven, anxiety-filled, short life, and she prayed for his killer that God’s grace would bring the courage to acknowledge the crime, to seek forgiveness and to make reparation. Lastly, she prayed for herself that her sins of omission in the schooling of Colman would be forgiven and that she would be given the strength to bring to maturity and confidence the six young lives entrusted to her.
‘Go forth, Christian soul …’ prayed the priest and Mara bent over and sketched the sign of the cross on the dead forehead and then, feeling comforted and strengthened by her prayer, went forward to greet the O’Lochlainns.
They had stopped at a little distance away from the body, keeping heads bowed until the priest had finished. There was Ardal O’Lochlainn himself, mounted on an iron-grey stallion, and behind him were Donogh’s three sons, each leading a pair of horses. The cart was a good sturdy one and they had even taken the trouble to lay some green branches and a few early roses on it. Mara smiled up at Ardal. It would have been his thought, she knew. He was a man of great sensitivity. It would be good to have him at her side when she broke the news to Colman’s parents.
‘Brehon,’ he said gently. ‘This is a terrible thing. What happened? Was it an accident?’
‘Were you there for the festivities, Ardal?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I never bother about it these days. I let my household stay all night. The men enjoy it more than I do.’
Pity, thought Mara. This is one man whose word I would trust as I trust my own. This is one man who would never hide the truth, or turn his back on wrongdoing. She looked at his tall, athletic frame, his eyes as blue as the lake water at their feet and his red-gold crown of hair and she wondered why he had never remarried. The death rate among young women was very high – perhaps many of them were too young for childbirth – but most men married again quite quickly. Every father in the kingdom of the Burren, or in Corcomroe, would be delighted to make a match between his daughter and the taoiseach of the powerful O’Lochlainn clan. Rumour had it that Ardal had a wife of the fourth degree, a fisherman’s daughter, in Galway, but that would not stop him contracting another more suitable alliance.
‘I’ve brought horses for you all, my lord,’ he said, addressing the king. ‘The young scholar told me that you were all on foot. I thought you would prefer to ride back to Cahermacnaghten.’
‘Good man, yourself,’ said Turlough Donn enthusiastically. He would not have enjoyed the long walk back across the Burren, thought Mara.
‘I’ll go with you to Galway, Ardal,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll want to see Colman’s parents myself.’
He looked a little flustered. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you would go back with the king. I didn’t realize that you were coming. Perhaps Donogh’s wife would …’ His voice trailed off. Mara did her best to hide a smile. Dear Ardal, she thought affectionately. He was the soul of honour and he would think it wrong that a woman should ride unescorted with a troop of men. But she certainly did not want Donogh’s wife, Sadhbh, dragged away from her busy life as wife of one of the most important farmers in the kingdom.
‘Perhaps Nuala would be allowed to come with me?’ she asked Malachy. ‘Would you like to ride to Galway, Nuala?’
‘Yes, please!’ said Nuala, giving her father no time to reply. Quickly she went across to where a pair of spirited bay horses was being held with difficulty by one of Donogh’s men.
‘I thought one of these for King Turlough and one for the Brehon,’ called Ardal mildly but firmly. He went over and took one of the bays already provided with a side saddle and brought it over next to a large stone, holding it there while Mara mounted. King Turlough was beside her in a moment, holding her hand firmly while she arranged the loose folds of her léine.
‘Go safe and return soon,’ he said, using the words of an old prayer.
‘Are you sure you would not want to go back to Thomond today?’ she asked. ‘You must have business to do.’ Ardal had withdrawn and was helping his niece on to a demure-looking Connemara pony. Turlough Donn held the bridle in one hand and placed his other large warm hand on hers.
‘I’ll wait until you come home,’ he said softly. ‘I would not miss the opportunity of another evening with you for all the business in the world.’
Mara turned her eyes towards the priest but he had gone back to collect his own horse from under the hawthorn tree. What would Father Conglach think of this hand-holding and whispering?
‘Tell Brigid to have supper ready at about seven,’ she said aloud and quickly she returned the pressure of his hand before gathering up the reins.
‘I’ll have the pot boiling,’ said King Turlough Donn with a cheerful wave.
‘And take Bran back with you, will you? I can’t take him to Galway. He’ll run behind your horse. He’ll go with you, don’t worry.’
‘Of course he will go with me,’ said Turlough. ‘Aren’t I one of the family?’
NINE
BERRIAD AIRECHTA (SUMMARY OF COURT JUDGEMENTS)
There are three categories of mac béo-athar, living son:
1. Mac té, a son of the fireside, dependent on his father and subject to his control
2. Mac áuar, a cold son, who has failed in his duty to his father
3. Mac ailte, a reared son who has been allowed independence to devote himself to a profession or to husbandry
GALWAY WAS An IMPRESSIVE sight with its hundreds of stone buildings rising up against the western sea. It had been named Gaillimh, the place of the foreigners, because it was an Anglo-Norman settlement, established soon after the Normans came to Ireland. It was the only remaining settlement controlled by England in the west of Ireland. A great wall had been built around it; the houses inside were large, handsome and, after the disastrous fire of 1472, all made from stone.
‘I love the town of Galway,’ breathed Nuala as they arrived. Her dark eyes were dancing with excitement
and her cheeks flushed as she looked around at the crowds.
‘City,’ corrected Ardal. ‘It’s a city-state. It was given a charter in 1485 by the English king, Richard III.’
‘I remember that. I was twelve years old, then,’ said Mara. ‘My father took all the scholars at the law school to Galway to see the celebrations.’ She and Dualta, her future husband, had escaped, she remembered. They had gone down to the quays and Dualta had bought a flagon of wine. The memory brought a quick spurt of amusement to Mara. They had thought themselves so grown-up, she and Dualta!
‘A merchant told me that it’s the third most important port, after Bristol and London,’ Ardal told his niece. ‘They trade in wine, spices, salt, animal products and fish,’ he added. Mara concealed a smile. They had kept pace with the cart the whole way so the journey had been slow and tedious and Ardal had seized the opportunity to improve the mind of his niece with various lectures, especially on the virtues expected of a wife and a mother. Undoubtedly he would be a moving force in the proposed match between Naoise and Nuala.
‘When you are a physician you will be able to buy powders and remedies from overseas here in Galway, Nuala,’ Mara said innocently and a slight frown appeared on Ardal’s handsome face.
‘Here is the city gate,’ he said abruptly. ‘Would you wait here for a moment, Brehon, while I speak to the man on guard.’
Mara reined in her horse and looked around with interest. Theirs was not the only cart; others were in front of them and behind, laden with leather, meat, mantles made from wolf fur, wooden barrels filled with butter. Large herds of cows were being driven along – they would be shipped over to Wales and to France. There were fourteen gates into the city of Galway, she knew, and if every gate was as busy as this one, then the city must be enormously wealthy.
My Lady Judge Page 11
