‘I’ve told the man at the gate to let the mayor know,’ said Ardal, returning to them. ‘He is a cousin of Sean Lynch, Colman’s father. You knew he was related to the mayor of Galway?’
Mara nodded. There was no chance that she could not have known; Colman had brought it into conversation at every opportunity. The mayor was obviously of great importance here, as all the carts and the herds of animals ahead of them were being hastily moved out of their way, and they were waved through the gate with great speed.
‘We turn here and go up Shop Street,’ said Ardal. ‘Shall I lead the way?’
He set off, Mara and Nuala followed, and behind them the cart trundled on with its shrouded body lying amid the green branches and the wilted roses. People in the crowded streets drew back respectfully and many made the sign of the cross as they passed. The news was spreading fast.
‘Here is Lynch’s castle,’ said Ardal over his shoulder. He stopped beside a tall, oblong tower house. A man came running out to take their horses. His face was white and frightened. Mara hoped that the parents had not yet been told.
Mara had not seen Colman’s parents, Seán and Fidelma Lynch, for over a year — not since Colman’s graduation – and as they stood at the window looking down at them she was struck by how old they looked. Colman had been a late son – and their pride and joy. She hoped that she would not have to destroy that pride. She stood at the heavy oaken door of the grey stone tower house and hesitated. In a moment, Ardal was at her side. He would tell the sad story for her, if she requested it; she knew that, but the story was hers and she had to be the one that broke the news.
‘Mara, Brehon of the Burren,’ she said briefly to the serving-man who opened the door. He knew Ardal; he was obviously a frequent and welcome visitor to the house, but he bowed with respect to Mara and, taking a silver candlestick, he escorted them up the steep spiral staircase to the Great Hall above. Why had Colman found a need to extract money from the people of the Burren? thought Mara. Even if his parents did not want to spend more money on him, they were wealthy and would probably have helped if he had needed money for any particular reason. Why did he have to blackmail a poor farmer like Lorcan?
‘I bring sad news,’ she said as soon as she had greeted the elderly pair. ‘There has been a death …’ She paused for a moment. Colman’s father looked bewildered, but Fidelma knew.
‘Colman …’ she gasped and Mara nodded, reaching out and taking one of the old woman’s gnarled hands between her own.
‘He was killed on Bealtaine Eve, on the mountain,’ she said gently. ‘We have brought his body back to you. I do not yet know his killer, but I will let you know as soon as there is any news.’
She waited for tears, but none came. Neither of them sat down: both just stood and stared. They seemed uncertain of what to do, almost as if some living spring within them had suddenly dried up. Nuala slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
‘He did not suffer, he died instantly,’ Mara continued. It was the only consolation that she could give to the stricken parents. She could not think of anything else to say. Even Ardal seemed to have lost his usually fluent tongue. ‘Come and sit down,’ she continued gently, guiding Fidelma towards the tall chair by the fireplace.
‘Sit down, Sean,’ said Ardal, copying her actions. ‘You will need all your strength for the time to come.’
They both sat, eyes full of bewilderment and shock. Eventually Sean Lynch spoke. ‘On the mountainside?’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes, it was the Bealtaine festival. He died on the side of Mullaghmore Mountain.’
There was another moment’s silence before the frozen pall of sorrow was broken by Colman’s mother.
‘It was a hard, cold place for him to die, on the side of that mountain.’ Her voice was barely audible. Her husband rose and came to her side. He put his arms around her but she ignored him; just stared ahead, looking at nothing. Outside in the street there was the noise of a wandering musician singing a song and then a harsh voice cutting through the music and then just the sound of cart wheels trundling. Inside the room there was no sound at all, except for the buzzing of a fly in the coloured glass of the window.
The door opened and in came Nuala, followed by a white-faced maidservant bearing a tray of pewter goblets filled with wine.
‘Good girl,’ said Mara softly to Nuala. She took a goblet and held it to the ashen lips of Colman’s mother. Seán Lynch took a goblet and drank mechanically, first one and then another. He did not look at his wife. ‘Tell Father Murphy to come,’ he said to the maidservant as she hesitated at the doorway and then rapidly shouted after her, ‘No, no, I’ll go myself.’
‘I’ll go with you, Sean,’ said Ardal. And in a moment Mara and Nuala were left with the woman. She seemed to be listening. There was a long silence. She asked no questions, just sat and listened. After about five minutes there were heavy tramping noises from downstairs, a door creaked open and then there was the sound of trestles being dragged noisily across the flagged floor. Nuala’s eyes met Mara’s: the body was being brought in.
‘I must get something to cover him,’ said Colman’s mother, jumping up feverishly. ‘Come to his room with me and we’ll find something.’
Colman’s room was up on the second floor, luxuriously carpeted and curtained. There was an ornately carved chest at the end of the bed and his mother threw it open and delved inside it. She pulled out a magnificent bedcovering made from the finest silk and velvet and embroidered with gold threads. For a moment she buried her face in it, then she handed it to Nuala. Suddenly a muffled sob broke from the woman. She had pulled out roll after roll of vellum from one end of the chest. Frantically she tore them open and thrust them, one by one, in front of Mara. ‘See what a scholar he was,’ she sobbed. ‘Look at all his lessons.’
Mara looked, tears filling her own eyes. There were all the early lessons, the penmanship large and round, though neat and careful, and then the later scrolls, filled with meticulous tiny writing. ‘Even last week, when he came here, he was still working for you,’ sobbed the mother. ‘Look, I found this on the floor after he had left. He must have dropped it from his pouch. Some tasks that he had to do for you.’ On the top of the chest there was a snowy-white léine and placed carefully in the middle of it was a scrap of vellum. Mara took and read it. It was a list of case numbers from the judgement texts and yearbooks that were stored in the oak press at the law school. One of them caught her eye: the year was MCCCXC and the number of the judgement text was XIX. It was the number of her own divorce case. She recognized it instantly. There were others, also, whose numbers were not familiar to her; two of them dated from the time of her father. Mara crumpled the piece of vellum in her hand and then thrust it into her pouch.
‘He was an incomparable student,’ she said with sincerity to the grieving mother. ‘I have never had any student like him in all of my years at the law school.’ She rose to her feet and gently took the rich bedcovering from Nuala, leading the way back downstairs. Nuala followed, a solicitous hand under Fidelma’s elbow.
By the time they reached the bottom of the steep spiral staircase Colman’s body had been carried into the house and placed on some boards across a pair of trestles in the bare, empty guards’ chamber next to the front door. Mara handed over the richly embroidered cloth and stood back while Fidelma covered her son’s corpse. Then a small round priest came in the door, with an acolyte swinging the censer containing the incense. Mara and Nuala sank to their knees behind the two parents and joined in the prayer for the dead. Behind them stood Ardal O’Lochlainn, his pleasant mellifluous voice murmuring the Latin words.
A stream of people – servants, neighbours, relations and friends – came silently through the open door and knelt on the hard flagstones. The room and the hallway beyond were thronged with people. It was amazing how quickly everyone could gather, thought Mara, and then remembered how closely everyone lived and how short the distances were in this crowded walled
city. There would be a great wake tonight and tomorrow Colman would be buried in St Nicholas’s Church. Galway had reclaimed him; there was no further part to be played by the law school in the kingdom of the Burren. When the prayer was over, Mara touched Nuala’s shoulder, rose to her feet and silently crept out. Ardal O’Lochlainn followed.
‘We’ll go back now, Ardal,’ whispered Mara. ‘I’ll send your horses back over to Lissylisheen tomorrow. You’ll want to stay longer.’
‘Oh, no!’ Ardal was shocked. ‘I can’t allow you to ride back on your own. I’ll escort you.’
Mara sighed. Ardal could be tiresome. He was stubborn and used to getting his own way.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You stay here. You have business to do. Nuala and I will be perfectly all right.’
He continued to look worried; he would not yield, she knew. He would prefer to lose a day’s business, and perhaps an evening’s pleasure, than show her any discourtesy.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’ll ride back behind your two men in the cart. Then we’ll come to no harm.’
His brow cleared. ‘You’re sure? It won’t be too slow for you?’
‘No, no,’ she said, lying without a qualm. ‘It won’t be too slow for us. Make our farewells to the Lynch family when it seems right to you. They won’t miss us. Look at all those people still coming. Shop Street is full of them.’
‘It will be slow and boring riding behind this cart again,’ said Nuala in a low voice as they moved off down the street at walking pace.
‘No, it won’t,’ said Mara calmly. ‘As soon as we get on to the south road, outside the city, we’ll say goodbye to the cart. Just ride quietly now while Ardal is still looking.’
‘Why was Colman killed, Mara?’ asked Nuala as they followed sedately behind the cart and edged their way through the crowded gate.
‘I don’t know, but I’ll have to find out,’ said Mara. It was true, she thought. She would have to find out; cost what it might, the truth was important. ‘Just move to the side here,’ she said, looking down the road at a herd of cows thundering down towards them. Two skinny boys armed with sticks were doing their best to slow them but the lead cow was determined to make a bid for freedom and her sisters were doing their best to keep with her. Ardal’s cart stopped and so did all of the other carts.
‘Now, this is where we accidentally lose Ardal’s men,’ said Mara, continuing to walk her horse on the grass verge until they were safely past the galloping herd.
‘And this is where we gallop,’ giggled Nuala, clapping her heels against the sides of the Connemara pony. ‘Let’s just go as fast as we can. I don’t really want to talk about Colman.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Mara, enjoying the feeling of speed. She didn’t even want to think about Colman. She would keep her mind clear and then she would be fresh tomorrow when she started the investigation.
‘Look, we’re already at the turn-off for the mountain pass,’ said Nuala after half an hour of hard riding. She slowed down. ‘I think I’d better get off at the hill,’ she said. ‘This pony is blown. Why did Ardal give me such a fat, slow pony?’ she grumbled.
‘I’ll get off, too,’ said Mara. She noticed that Nuala never called Ardal ‘uncle’. A very independent young lady, she thought. She swung herself down from the horse and walked up the hill beside Nuala. ‘We’re back in the kingdom of the Burren now,’ she said with satisfaction, but then said no more; the hill was so steep that it was almost perpendicular so she saved her breath until they reached Clerics’ Pass at the top.
‘Shall we ride now?’ Nuala had just asked when Mara heard the shouts.
‘Ssh!’ she said, listening intently.
It’s a large party of men riding, thought Mara, but that was not what worried her. The loud voices came to her ears very clearly. They were speaking Gaelic, but not the familiar Gaelic of the mid-west. This was Connaught Gaelic; she had learned it at the law school many years ago. It had an unfamiliar sound, but she could still understand it. What were Connaught men doing riding through the kingdom of the Burren? Suddenly she remembered the anxiety of Turlough’s bodyguards when the king was having dinner in her house on Bealtaine night. They had been worried about the O’Kellys from Connaught. These men must be the O’Kellys.
Mara’s first thought was for Turlough’s danger, but her second was for the danger that she and Nuala now faced. If the marauding clansmen captured them, then, as Brehon of the Burren, she could be a valuable bargaining tool in the O’Kelly and O’Brien clan warfare. She had no fear for her own safety; there was a great respect for her office in Gaelic Ireland; her greatest fear at the moment was the prospect of explaining to a respectfully worried Ardal how exactly it had occurred that she had separated herself and his niece from the cart and continued along the lonely roads with no male protection.
‘Quick,’ she whispered in Nuala’s ear. ‘Lead your pony. Follow me. I know where we can hide.’
The Cistercian monks from the abbey of Sancta Maria Petris Fertilis had constructed Clerics’ Pass and it was a magnificent monument to their skill and industry. They had built it several hundreds of years ago, but it still needed constant attention. Mara had often noticed the narrow, well-trampled path that led through the large heaps of broken stone at the side of the road to the abbey in the valley below and now she quickly guided Nuala along this way, praying that they would be out of sight before the men passed. Her heart beat a little faster as they pushed their way through the thorny hedge beyond the rocks; the passageway had been made for men, not for horses, but they were safely on the other side by the time the noise of the horse hoofs drew near. She could hear the men so plainly now that it seemed amazing that she and Nuala could remain unheard.
‘Why didn’t he come?’ came one voice. The speaker’s accent was not as strong as many of the others so the words were quite clear.
‘Lost his courage,’ said another. ‘Afraid of what the O’Briens might do to him.’
Mara wished that she could stop and listen, but her first duty was to get Nuala out of the way as quickly as possible so she continued to move rapidly down the path. The tall hedge would hide them until the men had passed.
The next words were not so clear, but she thought she heard the word ‘reward’ and then their word for ‘lawyer’ among them. She frowned. Were they talking of her? But no, the word they used was not ‘Brehon’ and the pronoun definitely was ‘he’. Who was this ‘he’? Had Colman been involved with these O’Kellys? she wondered. It would certainly fit with what she was rapidly learning about his character. Perhaps they had promised to reward him for information about the king. This was something she would have to puzzle out afterwards, but first she had to get Nuala home safely and then warn the king of this danger.
‘We’ll walk on down to the abbey,’ she whispered. ‘Lead your pony. It should be safe now; they seem to have gone down the hill towards Galway, but we’ll be less easy to see if we walk. They just might look back when they reach the flat road.’
The O’Kellys would skirt the city of Galway and go up past Maam if they were going home, she thought. On the other hand, they might not be going home. They could be camped somewhere on the flat empty salt marsh that formed the boundary between the sea and the north-eastern side of the Burren.
The abbot himself was waiting for them as they came out from the lane. He had obviously seen them as they crossed the field leading downhill from the roadside hedge.
‘Brehon, the blessings of God and of His Holy Mother be upon you,’ he said gravely, and looked with suspicion at Nuala.
‘And on you, too,’ said Mara automatically, her mind busy with her plans.
‘You are well?’ he enquired.
She suppressed a grin. Why didn’t the man ask straight out, ‘What were you doing creeping along that path?’
‘I am very well, Father Abbot,’ she said with dignity, brushing some dead blackthorn twigs from her hair and noticing that her gown had acquired
a long rent across the skirt. ‘And you? And all the brothers?’
‘We are all well,’ he said after he had given her question a moment’s solemn consideration. He looked again directly at Nuala, who had hitched her léine up to her knees as soon as they were clear of Galway. She stared back at him with interest.
‘This is Nuala, daughter of Malachy the physician,’ said Mara. ‘We have a favour to ask of you, Father Abbot. We were alarmed by some men on Clerics’ Pass; I think they were the O’Kellys. I would be grateful if you could send a message to Caisleán Seán-Muicinis to ask for an escort of ten men to accompany us back to Cahermacnaghten where King Turlough Donn awaits us. Ask him could we keep the men for a few days to guard the king.’
‘Certainly,’ said the abbot, looking quite alarmed. He rushed off towards a lay brother working in the field across the lane. King Turlough Donn was a patron of the abbey; one of his ancestors had built it for the Cistercians a few hundred years ago. The mention of his name would be enough to galvanize the whole abbey into action.
‘Will you and your young companion take some refreshment?’ he enquired when he returned. Mara’s eyes followed the lay brother and saw with satisfaction that he had already jumped on a horse and was riding rapidly out of the gate.
‘No, thank you,’ she said gravely, unable to bear the thought of polite conversation for another half-hour. ‘We will sit in the chapel and give thanks for our deliverance. Pull down your léine,’ she hissed to Nuala, as they followed the abbot through the cloisters. ‘Do you want to distract all the young brothers from their vocations?’
TEN
CRITH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)
HONOUR PRICES
A person’s place in society is measured by his honour price (lóg n-enech – the price of his face).
My Lady Judge Page 12
