My Lady Judge

by Cora Harrison

  It was a tradition that the scholars had a day off to help with the gathering of seaweed, and at least it would give Mara a day of peace, a day to think quietly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think you can all go. But now we will have to think about today and your task.’

  ‘We’ll work really well all of today if we can go seaweed-gathering tomorrow,’ said Moylan earnestly.

  ‘We might even solve your investigation for you,’ chipped in Enda. ‘We might come back this evening with the murder solved. That would be very useful for you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You might even give us an extra day’s holiday,’ said Moylan hopefully.

  ‘Brigid said that she would pack some of her pork pies and a flagon of light ale into satchels for us all so that we don’t need to waste time coming home to be fed,’ said Aidan.

  She smiled at them, warmed by their excitement and by the word ‘home’ that Aidan had used.

  ‘You will remember the oath that you all swore at Michaelmas?’ she said looking around.

  ‘Of course,’ said Shane promptly. ‘We swore with our hand on the Bible.’

  ‘Cross our hearts and hope to die,’ said Moylan, sketching a rapid cross on his breast with his thumb.

  ‘Discretion and silence in all dealings with the people of the kingdom’, said Enda, quoting from a wisdom text.

  Mara gave a satisfied nod. ‘Your task, Enda, is to trace the movements of Oscar O’Connor, stone-cutter of the kingdom of Corcomroe. Find out everything about him on that night of Bealtaine. Moylan and Aidan will aid you in this. Interview as many people as you can. The main reason for these enquiries, of course, is to find out what time Oscar left the mountain, but if he spoke to anyone, take careful note of his words. Do be thorough about this, because it may be possible that he left and then returned later on. Listen for the vespers bell from the abbey and return as soon as you hear it.’

  ‘And what about me?’ asked Fachtnan.

  ‘See as many people as you can and ask them the memories they have of who was near to Wolf’s Lair shortly before, and just after, the bonfire was lit. Make sure that you listen carefully and make accurate notes immediately after someone has spoken. Don’t rely on your memory, Fachtnan. Write everything down.’

  ‘And what about us?’ asked Shane.

  ‘Please can we have our enquiry?’ pleaded Hugh. ‘Just the two of us?’

  Mara had been about to tell them to go with Fachtnan, but then she hesitated. They would much prefer to go on their own and Fachtnan would probably do better without them, also. He would have the judgement to know when to press a question or when to just leave it alone; the two young boys might spoil things for him by inserting their own questions.

  ‘Yes,’ she said solemnly, ‘I want you two to interview Diarmuid O’Connor. You can take turns with asking the questions and writing down the answers. Don’t rush; take plenty of time.’ Diarmuid, she knew, would be tactful and patient with them. He was fond of children. She racked her brains for someone else for them to interview. She didn’t want them riding all over the Burren with no supervision. She had a great sense of responsibility towards these two youngest scholars.

  ‘Oh, and you could interview Roderic,’ she added quickly. Roderic’s house was quite close to the law school. He would probably delay them by playing some new tunes to them on his horn. No doubt he would be in a happy, if slightly nervous, mood, after the wonderful excitement of the king’s offer to make him one of his household musicians.

  ‘See Roderic first this morning, you can also ask him if he would like to go to Fanore with you all tomorrow. He’d enjoy that. Then, when you have finished with Roderic, go on to Diarmuid. Come back here as soon as you are finished. Tell Diarmuid that I expect you back at vespers.’ With a bit of luck, Diarmuid would detain them for a while, she thought. He usually had a few orphaned or rejected lambs to feed, or a few calves to be driven to fresh pasture.

  After they had gone, Mara settled back to work in the schoolhouse. There was no doubt in her mind now that Colman had been a blackmailer, but did one of his blackmail victims murder him? Or was this a murder that was in some way involved with the complicated political situation of the times? Again she recalled the words that she had overheard on the mountain pass. Something about a young lawyer … and about someone who did not turn up. Or was it a revenge killing by Oscar O’Connor, triggered by Colman’s monstrous act of informing upon his cousin?

  She stared at the scroll marked MCDLXX/XXXV with the name of Muiris O’Heynes on the top, but she did not draw it out again. She would have to talk to Muiris; she knew that, but she wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. Her own feeling was that these law texts in front of her held secrets that should be as inviolate at those told to the priest in the confession box. To give herself time to think she drew out her own divorce judgement text.

  Yes, she was right about the number, she thought, picking up and unrolling the vellum. MCDXC/XIX. It amused and calmed her to read it. The facts were all so clearly stated by the aigne, Mara O’Davoren. All the names of the many witnesses to Dualta’s ribald, drunken boasting in the alehouse, their places of residence and their occupations were stated, the references to the law texts, names and numbers, cross-references to other cases, everything was there. It had been a model pleading, she thought proudly. Fergus and a judge from Thomond had heard the case and the judgement given was divorce with the return of the bride price to the bride herself, since her father was no longer alive.

  Was Colman planning to blackmail her? she wondered. What did he think that would achieve? Everyone on the Burren knew the story of the divorce. There had been a lot of talk and disapproval at the time. Or was it perhaps Dualta? Had Colman discovered him? Perhaps Dualta was in Galway? Had Colman found some reason to blackmail him? She had never known or cared where her husband went. It had been a great mistake, that early and rushed marriage when she was only fourteen, and her husband was only seventeen. He had been a stonemason’s son who had been sent to law school. He had been intelligent enough, but light-minded and too fond of drink and carousing. He would never pass his final examinations unless he took his studies more seriously, her father had often warned him. And year after year he had failed. She had been very much in love with him when she was fourteen and her father had given in to her, as he usually did. By the time that Sorcha was born, a year later, she had known it was a mistake. And then came the death of her father the year after that and then the emergence of the bully in the inadequate Dualta.

  I could have waited a little longer, she thought. He would have undoubtedly strayed. Already he was eyeing other women; she knew that. That would have been a more usual and more acceptable reason for divorce. But she knew also that he had no hope of passing his law examinations: he spent little time in studying and long hours in alehouses, relying on the fact that he would be rich from the proceeds of his wife’s property and law school. She needed to get rid of him and to be the one in charge of the law school. She was a qualified aigne at sixteen and an ollamh, professor, before her eighteenth birthday.

  When, on that day in April 1490, Diarmuid came to her, distressed and embarrassed, after overhearing Dualta’s boasting in the alehouse the night before, she knew immediately that she had a weapon in her hand to get rid of her husband. She smiled now at the memory of Diarmuid’s freckled face flushing hot with blushes, and her own cool, calm probing until she managed to get from him the exact words that Dualta had used. He had been horrified at the idea of telling it again in public, but she had always been able to make Diarmuid do as she wanted since the time that they had played together when they were young children.

  Judgement day, Bealtaine MCDXC. Yes, Diarmuid’s evidence was there. Fergus had written that and he had heavily censored it, she had been amused to see that, after the case was over. Dualta’s words, though, as quoted by Diarmuid, would have lingered in the minds of the community for a long time – probably still did, nineteen years later. She shrugged. She didn’t
care. She had been a passionate girl and she saw nothing to be ashamed of in that. The important thing was that she had kept her law school, kept her farm, had become Brehon of the Burren, and now all of these things would be for Sorcha’s son, four-year-old Domhnall, or daughter, two-year-old Aisling.

  MCDLXXXII/IX – yet another case before her time. This she read through quickly, lips parted, eyebrows raised. Yes, undoubtedly this could have led to blackmail, but had Colman just held this in reserve? Or had he already spoken to the man and blackmailed him? If so, there had been little sign of it. There were other cases, also, on his list – even a yearbook, marked MDVII, which held a record of all of the births, marriages and deaths in that year on the Burren. Some of the cases puzzled her; what had Colman found of interest in them? But she did not underestimate the depth of his intelligence and his greed and she knew that she would have to study each one of these cases carefully. First, though, she would go to see Muiris O’Heynes at his farm at Poulnabrucky.

  The walk was pleasant; there had been one of those rapid changes that made the weather the most frequent topic of conversation in the west of Ireland. Cumhal was right; they would have a few fine days now. The west wind had veered around once more to the east and already the day seemed warm. The damp grass between the clints was steaming gently as the heat of the sun drew its moisture from it and the sky was as blue as the tiny gentians at her feet. There was no sign of sheep-shearing, she was glad to note as she neared Muiris’s farm. If he had been shearing then there would have been no possibility of a casual, but private, conversation with him.

  There was no sign of Muiris, but Aoife was sitting on the wall, combing her long wet hair – probably keeping a lookout for Rory, thought Mara. ‘I wonder if your father is at home, Aoife,’ she said, looking around.

  ‘Yes, he is, Brehon,’ said Aoife helpfully. ‘I’ll run and get him.’ She was gone instantly. Mara bit her lip with annoyance. She would have preferred to go and find Muiris in some quiet corner of a field or barn. Now she would have to speak to him with Aoife there, scanning the horizon for Rory, but lending an ear to the conversation. She turned around and looked back towards the west. Yes, a young slim figure was lightly vaulting a wall in the distance. Hopefully, she would not have long to wait before Aoife left them.

  With keener interest than in the past, she studied the farm and its farmhouse. It was a good house, with a neat, well-swept flagstone yard in front of it. The house itself had been sturdily and carefully built. Through the layers of whitewash the square-cut edges to the blocks of stone could easily be seen; most houses on the Burren were just built of random stones piled one on top of the other. Muiris’s roof was thatched with pale gold reeds, much more durable than the thatch of soft oat stems or rushes used by most of his neighbours. The cow cabins in the yard were whitewashed inside and out and looked as clean as the yard. The fields around the house were emerald green, grazed by fat, contented cows and enclosed by well-built walls. A man who did everything well, thought Mara; a man who had risen high by dint of hard labour and determination; a man who had much to lose. She turned to look at him thoughtfully as he followed his pretty daughter from the barn.

  ‘Ah, Brehon,’ said Muiris coming to the gate. ‘Will you come in and have a cup of ale?’ The tone was courteous but his eyes were wary. Quickly she sought for a reason for her visit.

  ‘No, I won’t, Muiris, I just wanted to ask you about fishing,’ she said blandly.

  ‘Fishing?’ He was taken aback.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mara. ‘Brigid has been complaining that our stocks of salted fish are almost finished,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Do you think that the mackerel will be in at Fanore?’

  ‘Should be,’ said Muiris and now his voice began to lose its tension. ‘After these few days of good weather, and then the rain, you should get a shoal of them in. They’ll be there for the picking out of the water.’

  ‘I was thinking of sending my lads over to Fanore tomorrow,’ explained Mara. ‘Cumhal needs seaweed and I thought the lads could do some fishing too if the mackerel would be in.’

  ‘Could we go too, Father?’ asked Aoife, with a warm smile at Rory who was now rapidly approaching the farmhouse. ‘Felim,’ she shouted to her brother, who had just appeared with a bucket in his hand. ‘Would you and Aengus like to go fishing at Fanore tomorrow? We can all go, can’t we, Father? We’ll bring you back some shellfish for your supper. You know you love shellfish! Would that be all right, Brehon, if me and my brothers went, too?’ she added.

  Mara looked at Muiris. He was smiling indulgently and nodding. He could deny his pretty daughter nothing.

  ‘That’s fine, then,’ said Mara. ‘Shane and Hugh are going to ask Roderic if he would like to join in and I’ll send a note to Nuala’s father to ask permission for her to come as well. It promises fine tomorrow, Cumhal says, so it might be best if everyone left early in the morning – perhaps meet about a quarter of an hour after the abbey bell goes for prime. It should be sunrise by then. They’ll ride down the Spiral Hill and go through the mountain pass between Slieve Elva and Cappanawalla. Everyone should have a good day.’

  ‘And what about me?’ said Rory with a casual air. ‘If Roderic is going I’d love to go too. What about the O’Lochlainn lads from Glenslade? They’re all great fishermen. They’d love to come.’

  ‘And I’ll ask Emer if she’ll come with me,’ added Aoife demurely.

  ‘The more, the merrier, as the old saying goes,’ said Mara heartily. Muiris didn’t look too pleased at the thought of Rory going, but the fewer interruptions there were tomorrow the better. Rory had a habit of dropping in to the law school when he had nothing better to do. Mara moved a little aside from the young people and Muiris followed her politely. She lowered her voice.

  ‘I will be on my own tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘I have a lot of work to do. It seems as if Colman was investigating some old cases and it could be that one of them may hold the clue to his murder, that this murder was the result of blackmail. I’d like to be sure, though, to talk to the people involved in these old cases before making up my mind.’

  His face paled, and his eyes hardened, but he had himself well in command and he just nodded and looked away. Her bait had been taken, though; she was sure of that. He would come to see her tomorrow morning. He was not a man to postpone an unpleasant task. But was he a man who would kill to rid himself of a threat to the happy world that he had built around him?

  Would he have killed a man? she asked herself again as she walked back. Looking around the well-tended fields, filled with happy, well-cared-for cows and sheep, she had her answer. Of course he would kill. He was a man used to killing. He butchered his own animals, and sold the meat at markets. After all, she thought with a sigh, a man is an animal. If this man, if this young lawyer, threatened his security, threatened the happiness of his beloved family, then Muiris might decide to kill and then hope to raise the money for the fine if he were found out. Perhaps, after all, the Bible was right when it said: ‘Thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ For a moment the thought depressed her, but then she shook it from her mind and quickened her pace across the clints.

  Like the flowers of the field, individual men withered and died, but principles remained constant. The Brehon law was founded on confession, forgiveness and compensation and so long as she lived that law would prevail here in the kingdom of the Burren.

  SIXTEEN

  CRÍTH GABLACH (RANKS IN SOCIETY)

  There are two kinds of outsiders within the kingdom.

  One is an aurrad, a person of legal standing such as a

  Brehon, bard, a harpist or a file, a poet.

  The other is a dorad, who has no legal standing.

  If a killer is an outsider, or dorad, from another kingdom, a party of avengers may pursue a blood feud into that kingdom one month after the fine is due.

  HUGH AND SHANE CAME noisily into the yard outside the schoolhouse just as the last stroke of the
bell for vespers sounded from the abbey. Mara went out to greet them just as Fachtnan’s horse clattered over the stone flags.

  ‘I’ve got all the notes here, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan, swinging his leg over the horse’s back and digging into the leather satchel. He fished out a few scrolls and stared with dismay at the large greasy stain making a blob in the middle of his roll of parchment.

  ‘I must have put one of the pork pies in the wrong compartment of my satchel,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Mara soothingly. ‘You can always make a fair copy afterwards if anything is needed for evidence at Poulnabrone. This is just for me; I’ll read through it while Brigid gives you your supper. Hugh and Shane,’ she called as they sidled away in through the door of the scholars’ house, ‘have you got your notes?’

  Shane had done most of the writing, she noticed. Most of the questions, too, she thought. She read through these carefully while they stood there. They seemed in a very silly mood, stealing glances at each other as she read through the script.

  ‘You went to Roderic first?’

  ‘Yes, we ate our pork pies there while Roderic played us a few tunes and got us to sing some of his new songs,’ said Shane promptly. ‘And then we went over to Diarmuid. He gave us another meal and lots of honey cakes.’

  ‘And have any of you seen Enda, Moylan and Aidan?’ asked Mara.

  ‘No,’ said Fachtnan.

  She turned to look at Shane and Hugh.

  ‘No,’ said Hugh quickly.

  ‘Noooo,’ echoed Shane slowly after a pause. A smile plucked at the corners of Shane’s mouth and Hugh’s light blue eyes were dancing with amusement.

  ‘There’s King Turlough coming down the road,’ said Fachtnan.

  Mara turned away from Shane and Hugh and shaded her eyes against the strong south-westerly sun. There certainly was a troop of horsemen coming down the road.