A Secret and Unlawful Killing

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Your scholar said you wanted me, Brehon,’ said Fintan. His voice was habitually hoarse and rough, but was there a shade of truculence in it today?

  ‘Yes, Fintan, I was looking around for the miller, Aengus MacNamara. Have you seen him today? Fachtnan tells me that you are his cousin.’

  Fintan smiled, though there was still a wary look in his dark eyes. ‘The Burren is full of my cousins, Brehon,’ he said. ‘I’d be hard put to lay my hand on all of them. Even Ragnall, God have mercy on him, was a sort of cousin of mine.’ He turned around and scanned the crowd. Mara eyed him sharply. There was something unnatural in his words and movements. She had once seen a group of players enacting a miracle play on a cart outside Noughaval church. The way that Fintan scanned the crowd reminded her of one of those players. The gesture of lifting his right hand to shield his eyes against the few watery gleams of silvery light in the sky, the way that he turned his whole body slowly from side to side, the slightly raised left hand, all reminded her of a player. Instantly she felt certain that Fintan knew that Aengus was not among the crowd, and that for some reason he did not want to reveal that he had noticed the absence.

  ‘No, Brehon,’ he said eventually, after a quick sidelong look at her face. ‘No, I don’t seem to see him. Perhaps he is busy at the mill.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mara, her voice placid and non-committal. It was unlikely, she thought, that Aengus was so busy that he would not have come to the meeting to discuss the Michaelmas tribute. He would have known about that, she was sure, even if he had not heard of Ragnall the steward’s death. She looked at Fintan thoughtfully.

  ‘Did Aengus know of Ragnall’s death?’ she asked mildly.

  He winced noticeably and glanced around him with a look of desperation, like a bull at bay.

  ‘I don’t know, Brehon, I haven’t seen sight nor sound of the man for days,’ he said. He was sweating heavily, she noticed, but that could be normal. He was a big, heavily built man. The MacNamara clan would have been discussing the matter among themselves before she arrived and, having noticed the absence of Aengus the miller, would have speculated about his possible guilt. She decided to release him; she would get no more from him now, she knew.

  ‘Thank you, Fintan,’ she said. ‘You’ll want to be getting back to your work. I’ll drop in on you one day. I’d like you to make an iron bench for my garden. I’d like to have it over by my holly hedge. I was thinking the other day that a black iron bench would go very well with the white flowers that I have growing there.’

  ‘I’d be delighted, Brehon,’ he said, a relieved smile coming over his face.

  ‘I was wondering about a design of holly leaves on the back of the bench. I got the idea when I was looking at the oak leaves on your candlesticks. They are so beautiful, these candlesticks,’ she continued innocently.

  His face changed. She expected him to look angry, but anger was not what the expression showed: it was fear.

  ‘Ah well,’ he muttered. ‘I’d better be getting back now. I think that himself wants a word with you.’

  The taoiseach, Garrett MacNamara, was sailing majestically towards her, the crowd parting and then closing up again in his wake. Mara noticed that Murrough had now left him, had mounted his horse and was trotting off towards the east. She gazed after him with pleasure. On horseback, he made a fine figure of a man. She could understand how proud Turlough was of this handsome youth. Perhaps Murrough would soon be back in favour again now he had returned from England. His visit there, in the company of his father-in-law, had upset Turlough badly. I’ll have a word with Turlough, she thought, this breach between father and son was pointless. Murrough, like most young men, wanted the freedom to choose his company and his ideas. At the moment, English customs and way of life were new and interesting to him and, of course, he did love to tease his father. Mara was sure that things would soon settle down if Turlough ignored him. She turned back to face the other man.

  ‘Ah, Garrett,’ she said briskly. ‘You wanted another word with me.’

  It was obvious that he was full of words, she thought. She could see them bubbling up inside him.

  ‘You know your own business, Brehon, of course,’ he began and then looked startled when she interrupted him to agree firmly: ‘Of course.’

  He sucked in a long breath through his flaring horse-like nostrils and started again.

  ‘It’s just this affair with my poor man, Ragnall,’ he continued. ‘I understand that the candlesticks that were given as tribute by the blacksmith, Fintan …’ he paused for breath and she interrupted him quickly.

  ‘The candlesticks were not given by Fintan,’ she said. ‘They were given by Balor, Fintan’s servant, whose classification is that of a druth and as I explained to you, that is illegal. A druth cannot make any contract and cannot, therefore, pay tribute.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I understand that, Brehon. I just wanted to mention to you that the candlesticks are now missing from the cart. Niall MacNamara has just confessed that to me when I questioned him.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Mara calmly. Now will come either a blunt accusation that Fintan murdered Ragnall, or else a sly insinuation that this was what must have happened, she thought. He surprised her, though.

  ‘I just wanted to say that I want no more said about the matter of these candlesticks,’ he said hurriedly. ‘If people knew that the blacksmith had secretly taken them back, they might think Fintan had something to do with Ragnall’s death and I’m sure that is not true. He is a hot-tempered man, but not one to commit a crime like this against one of his own sept.’

  Mara’s heart warmed towards him. Garrett might be pompous and overbearing, but deep down he had the instincts of a taoiseach. He would not want to see one of his clan accused of this crime. She smiled cordially at him.

  ‘Garrett, you can be sure that I will conduct my investigation of this murder as carefully, and thoroughly, as possible and that my thoughts on this matter will remain, as always, silent until I come before the people of the kingdom at Poulnabrone and tell the truth of the matter,’ she asserted solemnly. He seemed impressed by that and bowed his head silently, but as she turned to leave him he recovered his self-possession.

  ‘There was another matter that I wanted to mention to you, Brehon,’ he said. ‘One of my men told me that there was a merchant there at the fair who was cheating the people. His name is O’Brien, Guaire O‘Brien, from Corcomroe. Niall MacNamara, who drove the cart, told me that he came up to Ragnall and was asking him all sorts of unnecessary questions and was trying to sell him some linen.’

  ‘Yes?’ queried Mara. Of course, she thought, Guaire O‘Brien is an outsider from the adjoining kingdom of Corcomroe. Everyone, whether MacNamara, O’Lochlainn, O‘Connor, or even O’Brien, would be glad to pin this crime on him. For Garrett this would be a much better solution than to have the murder pinned on one of his own clan. She waited patiently, but said no more.

  He looked slightly disconcerted for a moment and then recovered his flow of words. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t want to tell you your business, or anything like that, Brehon, but it might be a good idea for you to have a word with this Guaire O’Brien.’

  ‘I assure you, Garrett,’ Mara answered gravely, ‘that I will talk to everyone who can give me any information. The killing of a man is always a crime against the community and the law that regulates it. A secret and unlawful killing is doubly abhorrent and the truth must be uncovered as soon as possible.’

  I’m beginning to sound as pompous as he, she thought with amusement, but she kept a straight face as he nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Brehon,’ he said, beckoning with a lofty air of authority to his servant to bring up his horse. ‘We’ll be holding the wake for poor Ragnall, may God be good to him, tomorrow night at the castle. I will see you there,’ he stated.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mara, thinking with an inner sigh of the many hours in every yea
r which she had spent at wakes. These were huge ceremonies that went on for hours in the evening, or, more often, all night, before the burial. It was time that she could ill afford from her busy life as ollamh of the law school and Brehon of the kingdom. It had to be done, though: the community had to mourn the passing of one of their members with all due ceremonies. She watched Garrett ride away and then hastened to join her scholars, who were walking ahead with her neighbour, Diarmuid.

  ‘And we spent all night on the Great Lake,’ Shane was telling Diarmuid. Shane was the son of the hereditary Brehon to the O‘Neills, the ruling clan in northern Ireland. His home was at Dungannon Castle in Ulster. ‘And I caught a trout as big as this.’ He opened his hands to the width of his slim ten-year-old chest and then widened them a bit more.

  ‘As big as that!’ gasped Diarmuid. He was good with all of her boys, but had a special fondness for Shane.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ scoffed Moylan. ‘I went shark fishing and caught a shark and it was as big as Fachtnan.’

  ‘All by yourself?’ queried Mara with an eye on Shane’s downcast face.

  ‘Well no, there were a few of us,’ admitted Moylan, ‘but I helped to cut it up. We roasted some shark steaks on the sand. You should have tasted them, Diarmuid. They were iontach!’

  Mara smiled. She could see that iontach was going to be the word for the season; it had been ar fheabhas all through the Trinity term.

  ‘Well, now, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted shark steaks,’ said Diarmuid modestly. ‘But I’m a great man for trout,’ he added with a smile at Shane.

  ‘I went to the Lughnasa Fair at Killorglin,’ boasted Aidan. ‘You should have seen the girls there!’ He gave a long, low whistle, whether to indicate extreme beauty or extreme availability was uncertain, but Mara decided that she would not pursue the matter. Let him boast afterwards in the privacy of the scholars’ house.

  ‘And what about you, Enda?’ she asked. ‘What did you do on your holiday?’ It was strange that Enda was not already shouting Moylan and Aidan down with his own holiday stories.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ said Enda briefly. ‘Mostly helped on the farm.’ He had grown up this holiday, she thought. Before the summer holidays he had been noisy and troublesome; now he seemed rather quiet and withdrawn.

  ‘So did I,’ said Fachtnan. ‘Actually my brothers and myself were building a watermill to pulp down the flax. It was great craic, but we didn’t really get it working that well. I’d like to go up and have a look at the mill at Oughtmama, some Saturday, Brehon, if that is all right.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mara mechanically. Once again her thoughts went to Aengus, the miller of Oughtmama. Why was he not at Poulnabrone today? Could he know anything about the murder of his fellow clansman and his enemy, Ragnall MacNamara?

  FIVE

  URAICECHT BECC (SMALL PRIMER)

  A gobae, blacksmith, or bangobae, woman blacksmith, has an honour price that is fixed at seven séts.

  This does not increase even if he (or she) attains the grade of ollamh.

  TRIAD 148

  There are three essentials in the world:

  1. The womb of a woman

  2. The udder of a cow

  3. The moulding block of a blacksmith

  ‘WE’LL SET OFF EARLY for the wake at Carron because I want to call in at the forge on the way and see Fintan the blacksmith,’ said Mara, late on Wednesday afternoon. She surveyed her scholars seated on their stools in the schoolhouse. They still looked fairly neat and tidy after their day’s hard work at their studies, she noted thankfully. They would not need a change of clothing before they went.

  ‘Fachtnan, go and ask Brigid for some buttermilk and some oatcakes for you all before we set out,’ she said. No doubt they would get plenty of cake pressed on them at the wake; such was the custom at even the humblest of households. However, they looked tired and something to eat now would refresh them. The study of the Brehon law, with all of its complexities and its huge reliance on oral memory, was a hard, demanding life. Children were usually sent to a law school like hers at the age of six or even five and they remained there until they passed their final examinations at an age between eighteen and twenty-one. Mara’s grandfather and great-grandfather had been Brehons for the O‘Lochlainn clan, but her father, Séamus O’Davoren, had become an ollamh, professor. He had tired of the life of a dependant with, as the law texts put it, a seat at the board and a bed by the fire. So when he had inherited some property from a distant cousin he had set up the law school in the ancient fort of Cahermacnaghten, and Mara, as his only child, had inherited it when he died, soon after she had qualified as a lawyer. She had been sixteen years old then — too young, many thought, but not one of the four young scholars who had been at the law school in that year of 1489 had been removed from her care and since then the school had prospered. Five years later she had become Brehon of the Burren and had balanced the two roles with energy and commitment. Her scholars had always profited from her willingness to involve them in all the practical aspects of the legal problems in the kingdom of the Burren.

  The six scholars had put away their books and pens and were looking at her enquiringly. The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement. She had noticed how their tired faces had lit up with keen flashes of interest at the mention of Fintan MacNamara’s name.

  ‘Is Fintan a suspect then, Brehon?’ asked Enda politely. He had definitely grown up since last term, she thought. There had been a time when he had been quite a problem but now he seemed to want to work hard and to achieve success in his studies. He had grown even taller during the three months of outdoor life since the end of the Trinity term in June. Soon he would top Fachtnan, who was two years older. A good-looking lad, she thought fondly. With his blond hair, his tanned skin and his very blue eyes he was unusual in the west of Ireland where black or red hair and white or freckled skin seemed to predominate.

  ‘I don’t care for the word “suspect”, Enda,’ she said. ‘At least not spoken aloud,’ she amended. She always tried to be as honest as possible with her scholars and there was no doubt that, mentally at least, she was already forming a list of suspects. ‘Now what should we consider to help us decide who would be likely to commit this murder?’

  ‘Motive and opportunity,’ said ten-year-old Shane, brushing his black fringe out of his eyes and sitting up very straight as Fachtnan put a cup of buttermilk into his hands.

  ‘Well, Fintan had a motive because Ragnall had taken his candlesticks without permission,’ said Enda. ‘Hugh told us all about it. Everyone at the market knew about that.’

  ‘And he probably had opportunity because the forge is not too far from Noughaval market,’ said Fachtnan thoughtfully, licking some crumbs from his fingers.

  ‘So he is a suspect,’ said Enda triumphantly. ‘I’m just using that word in the privacy of the schoolhouse, Brehon,’ he added rapidly.

  Mara allowed herself a smile. She was glad to see that Enda, despite his new-found seriousness, was still irrepressible. All of the scholars had sworn an oath on the Bible that very morning to keep silent in public about all matters concerning the legal affairs of the kingdom and she knew that would be in the forefront of their minds now. The law year started on the feast of Michaelmas and she always began the year with this solemnity. They would need reminding from time to time during the year, but not now when the words of the oath would still be ringing in their ears. During all her years at the law school, Mara had only known of one person who had broken that oath.

  ‘What are you going to ask him, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan.

  ‘I think that I must ask him what he knows about the missing candlesticks,’ said Mara. ‘If he has them, then there is no problem; the MacNamara wants him to keep them. He wants no more trouble about them.’

  ‘Enda could beat a confession out of him,’ said Moylan slyly. ‘Do you remember the caves and how he — ’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Enda, his smooth brown skin flooding with an
angry flush.

  ‘That was when he was younger,’ said Mara firmly. The episode in the caves had taken place only last May, but she knew that, to the young, five months was an eternity. Enda was now seventeen; then he had been only sixteen. To him there would be a world of difference. Hopefully he would be steadier and more reliable this year. Already she had noticed a great change in him. An idea came to her and with her usual impulsiveness she immediately acted upon it.

  ‘Enda is now the senior scholar in this law school,’ she said with solemnity. ‘Fachtnan will be my assistant this year.’ She smiled affectionately at Fachtnan who was running his fingers through his bushy dark curls, his honest face looking bewildered. He had not passed his final examination yet — Latin was his weakness — but there was no reason why he should not act as her assistant before he qualified as an aigne. She would pay him what she had paid her previous assistant and she was sure that he would never let her down. He looked quite staggered. It was typical of his easy-going, modest nature that he had never thought of anything like this even though he was now nineteen years old.