A Secret and Unlawful Killing

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Shame, though,’ he continued after he had waited a courteous minute for a comment from her. ‘Everyone thought that it would be Niall. The whole of the Burren knew that he was the son of Aengus. Mind you, it’s not a surprise that Maol would get the steward’s job. They say that Ragnall had promised his daughter’s hand to him and the stewardship was probably promised at the same time. Ragnall would have wanted to keep it in the family. He wasn’t getting any younger. The job would have got too much for him sooner or later.’

  Well, I mustn’t keep you talking, Liam,’ said Mara courteously. ‘This is a busy time for you, I know. The tribute has been good this year?’

  ‘No complaints, no complaints at all,’ he said expansively. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘the O’Lochlainn would never be one to complain. He’s a great man to look after his people and to be just to all. Whatever the clan can afford to give; that will be welcomed by the O‘Lochlainn.’

  And with this compliment to his own taoiseach, and perhaps a sly swipe at Garrett, the MacNamara taoiseach, Liam strode back to the barn, calling a cheerful blessing over his shoulder. Mara waited until he had gone, pondering her best route to Lemeanah. She wondered whether to return to Noughaval, but that would mean either going past the forge again, alarming Balor, or else going through the dense hazel scrub around Shesmore. In the end she decided to take the road towards Kilfenora and then to turn east. In doing so, she would encroach upon the kingdom of Corcomroe, but Fergus, the Brehon of Corcomroe, would be the last man to worry about a thing like that. She would mention it to him the next time that they met. There was, of course, no law to forbid a professional person like herself from entering another kingdom, though the farming community were supposed to keep to their own kingdom, unless on days of fairs or festivals, but generally she preferred to keep to her own territory.

  Lemeanah Castle, or tower house, looked very peaceful as she cantered up the road towards it. A few boys were playing outside the surrounding cottages and a couple of little girls were picking some of the late blossoms of a tall purple loosestrife from the hedgerow.

  However, as soon as she approached the castle, someone in the gatehouse immediately challenged her. In the past, before the kingdoms were united under Thomond, the largest of the three kingdoms ruled over by King Turlough Donn O‘Brien, this would have been the borderline between the kingdoms of Corcomroe and Burren and tensions still showed in the guards on both sides of the border. Lemeanah Castle was just inside the border of the kingdom of the Burren, and the original cathair of Lemeanah had been built by the O’Lochlainns to defend the border against the O’Connors.

  ‘Mara, Brehon of the Burren,’ she announced, and there was instant deference.

  ‘The taoiseach is at Carron Castle at the inauguration of the MacNamara tánaiste,’ said an earnest young man. ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Brehon?’

  ‘Is Donal O’Brien here?’ asked Mara.

  ‘He is indeed, Brehon,’ said the earnest young man, his brow clearing of the anxiety of dealing with a Brehon on his own. ‘Will you come in and have a cup of ale while I find him?’

  ‘No, I’ll wait here,’ said Mara firmly and watched him run up the path while she turned over in her mind what she would say to young Donal. This was a difficult situation. It certainly looked as if Donal O’Brien may have been the last person to see Ragnall MacNamara alive. But did he kill him?

  ‘Your knife,’ she said, instantly producing the knife from her pouch the moment he arrived.

  The shock was immense. When she had shown him the brooch, he had immediately stretched out his hand for it in quite an unconcerned way, but now he actually took a step backwards as if she had slapped him across the face. His sunburned face turned a sickly yellow; under his tan, all the blood had drained away.

  ‘Where did you lose it?’ she asked gently.

  He stared fixedly at her as if he feared to drop his eyes.

  ‘When you were out hunting?’ she asked. ‘Did you lose it the same time that you lost your brooch?’

  She thought he was going to agree, but then his eyes hardened.

  ‘It’s not my knife,’ he said rapidly.

  She let a pause linger while the shouts of the children echoed off the high stone wall of the tower house.

  ‘Whose is it then?’ she asked bluntly. ‘Your father’s, your uncle’s?’

  He said nothing. He knew well that only members of the derbhfine, of the kin group descended from the one great-grandfather, had the right to use that form of the O’Brien crest.

  ‘Show me your knife,’ she said after a minute.

  He put his hand to his pouch and hesitatingly took out a knife. It was an ordinary blacksmith’s knife with no engraving, no crest; it was the sort of knife that every farm lad would carry. It was not the knife of a taoiseach’s son.

  ‘And that is your knife?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘And you have had no other?’

  ‘I did have one, a derbhfine knife,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But I lost it sometime ago. I didn’t want to bother my father about it. I didn’t want any lectures about carelessness so I just got Fintan to make this one for me,’ he added, trying to force a note of conviction into his voice.

  Unlikely, thought Mara. Everything about him, from his fine leather boots to the gold tore that he wore around his neck, spoke of a man who always made sure that his possessions were of the finest quality. He wouldn’t be afraid of his father, either. Turlough had said that his cousin Teige gave the boy anything that he wanted.

  ‘And when was that?’

  He hesitated. ‘About a month ago,’ he said.

  ‘And Fintan made it for you?’

  ‘Well, no, now that I think, that was just an old knife that I had when I was younger.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara and waited until he had drawn a perceptible sigh of relief before she pounced again.

  ‘Tell me about Michaelmas Eve,’ she said and watched him keenly. ,

  ‘Michaelmas Eve?’ he repeated, staring at her. He looked horrified.

  Mara nodded. The boy was in a state of nerves. Her heart sank. It did seem as if he were guilty. Had he killed Aengus? Or Ragnall? Or both?

  ‘Yes, at the céilí, the evening before the Michaelmas Fair. You had an argument with Aengus?’

  ‘He was jeering at Ragnall, taunting him with having to pay a fine.’

  ‘And you intervened, on Ragnall’s side? Why was that?’

  ‘Because he was Maeve’s father,’ said Donal with a simple dignity that impressed her.

  ‘You hoped he would yield and allow the two of you to marry if you stood up for him and took his part.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Donal said, sounding a little unsure. He smiled then. It was an attractive smile; it lit up his whole face. ‘I was a bit drunk,’ he confided, with all the assurance of a man whom women, young or old, found irresistible.

  ‘And you followed Aengus home?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded quite indignant.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  He shrugged. ‘Can’t tell you,’ he said. It sounded so like a small boy, that she found it hard to keep a smile from lifting the corners of her lips.

  ‘Tell me at Poulnabrone, then,’ she said casually. ‘In front of the people of the Burren.’

  That scared him. He looked incredulous, as if he could not believe that anyone could be so cruel. He was spoiled all right. Probably no one had ever said ‘no’ to him or made him face the consequences of his actions before.

  ‘Well, if you want to know, I came over to Shesmore to see Maeve,’ he confided. ‘Old Ragnall was drinking fit to burst and I thought it would be safe for an hour or two. Fionnuala knows all about us. She would keep watch and let us know if he were coming.’

  ‘And Maeve will be able to bear witness to that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. And now he was blithe again. He was young, rich, privileged, and the greatest obstacle to the marriage that he
wanted so badly had now been removed.

  ‘Then let us go and see her,’ said Mara. ‘Get your horse.’

  With a lordly gesture he called for his horse and when it came swung himself into the saddle like a man without a care in the world. Mara had said no more while they were waiting, but she had observed him very carefully. He looked quite at ease now, a little scornful, a little amused.

  Maeve was at home and came out into the yard as soon as the clatter of the horses’ feet sounded on the cobbles. Donal swung himself to the ground, threw the reins over the post and immediately took her in his arms. Mara stayed on her mare, looking at them both. There was no doubt that they were in love. She envied them. It must be a wonderful thing to love so wholeheartedly, not to weigh up reasons for and reasons against. They were an attractive young couple. If the boy proved to be innocent, there would be no objection to this marriage. The king had given the matter into her hands, and she thought she would enjoy seeing their happiness.

  Gently she moved her mare a step forward.

  ‘Maeve,’ she said, and the girl disentangled herself while Donal gazed adoringly at the small flushed face.

  ‘You remember last Sunday, Michaelmas Eve?’ asked Mara. She watched carefully to see whether a look was exchanged between them, but Maeve kept her wide round eyes fixed on Mara.

  ‘Yes, Brehon,’ she said demurely.

  ‘In the evening, did Donal come here to Shesmore?’

  This time there was a faint hesitation and a quick glance at her sweetheart’s face, but that was surely natural. She would be embarrassed about entertaining a young man when her father was not at home. She cast down her long eyelashes over her pink cheeks and said, ‘Yes, Brehon.’

  ‘And how long did he stay?’

  ‘A couple of hours, Brehon. He was helping me with the cows,’ she added primly.

  ‘So, was it dark before he left?’

  Maeve nodded her head with just the faintest touch of hesitation. ‘Yes, Brehon,’ she said after a few moments.

  ‘What time was it?’ asked Mara. She knew that there would be little chance of Maeve knowing the time. Most people took their time by the sun, or by the bells from the abbey or from the cathedral at Kilfenora. Few bothered with a candle clock. However, the question gave her an excuse to call another witness, so as soon as Maeve shook her head wordlessly, Mara called out: ‘Fionnuala, would you come out for a moment?’

  The stout middle-aged woman appeared at the doorway. ‘Yes, Brehon?’ she asked enquiringly.

  ‘Can you remember what time your master came home on Sunday night, Michaelmas Eve?’

  ‘I’d say it would be a couple of hours after sundown, Brehon,’ said Fionnuala readily.

  ‘And did anyone else come that evening before your master arrived?’ asked Mara casually.

  This time Fionnuala looked at her young mistress. It was just a quick glance, but undoubtedly some message was passed. Fionnuala turned back to Mara.

  ‘The young master, here, he came for a while,’ she said carefully. She nodded her head towards Donal.

  ‘And no one else?’

  ‘No one else, Brehon.’

  ‘And Donal left before your master arrived.’

  Fionnuala smiled. ‘Yes, he did, Brehon. He went down the lane to Lemeanah as soon as I saw the light from a torch coming from Noughaval.’

  Mara nodded. It might or might not be true, but that was the story that they had, all three, decided on. ‘I’ll leave you now, Maeve,’ she said. ‘Don’t you trouble about escorting me, Donal; I’ll take the path back to Noughaval. I’ll come and see you again in a few days’ time, Maeve.’

  Perhaps the news would be good, then, thought Mara as she rode slowly along the narrow pathway that led to Noughaval. Perhaps she would be able to give permission for Donal O’Brien and Maeve MacNamara to be betrothed. If, as it appeared, Donal had been with Maeve for the evening, then he was probably not guilty of the murder of Aengus. But what about the murder of Ragnall? Was he guilty of that? Mara sighed impatiently. Every time she thought of one murder it seemed to get tangled with the other. Was there any possibility that the two deaths were not connected?

  Whether connected or not, neither death would leave a great gap in the community. They would not be mourned. The sons of Aengus and the daughter of Ragnall would perhaps be far better off without a father. Nevertheless, the law demanded that the crime should be acknowledged and reparation made. If it were Donal that had killed Ragnall, then a fine would be paid to his daughter and recompense made. But would a daughter marry the man who had killed her father?

  However, if it were Niall who had killed his own father, Aengus, then the crime of killing one of the same blood would be deemed so horrendous that the law would demand that he be banished from the kingdom and condemned to a lonely and terrible end.

  ELEVEN

  BRETHA CRÓLIGE (JUDGEMENTS OF BLOODLETTINGS)

  Fingal (kin slaying) is the most serious crime that can be committed. No fine can be paid, nor no recompense made, by someone who has killed a member of his immediate family. The murderer is banished from the kingdom by being placed in a boat with no oars and sent to drift out to sea.

  ‘YOU DESERTED ME YESTERDAY,’ whispered Turlough as she came and knelt beside his burly figure in the top pew in the church at Noughaval.

  ‘Why aren’t you at Mass at Carron Church?’ she whispered back, piously etching a cross on her forehead, lips and breast with one thumbnail.

  ‘Couldn’t stand another minute of Slaney,’ mumbled Turlough behind the two immense hands which cupped his face. ‘I told herself and Garrett that you had invited me to dinner. Murrough was staying on, of course, so she didn’t care if I stayed or I went. You won’t believe this, but …’ he said, removing one hand from in front of his face in order to whisper hoarsely in her ear, ‘I think she’s making sheep’s eyes at that son of mine.’

  Hmm, thought Mara. If Turlough, always the most innocent of men, had noticed the situation between Slaney and Murrough, then things were getting very obvious. Had Garrett noticed anything, she wondered, as they all rose to their feet while Father O’Connor ambled out from the vestry behind two spry young altar boys bearing lighted candles. Was that, perhaps, why Garrett was so keen to get every lucrative piece of property into his own hands? Was this his only way of keeping the stately Slaney as his own? Murrough had a wife, but she had borne him no sons and he just might seek a divorce from her and marry Slaney. Yes, she decided, Garrett had noticed and this was why he was behaving so stupidly and alienating his clan. He was desperate to load Slaney with all the ostentatious wealth that she felt her origins demanded.

  ‘Introibo ad altare Dei,’ came the quavering voice of Father O‘Connor, and as she sank to her knees Mara gave a rapid glance around the church. Yes, the tall figure of Ardal O’Lochlainn was there just behind them. She made a quick note to see him after church. This is the wonderful thing about the weekly duty of Sunday Mass, she thought enthusiastically, as she devoutly beat her breastbone and joined with the rest of the congregation in the muttered ‘mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa …’ It was such a great opportunity for everyone to get business done that might otherwise take hours of walking or riding between far distant farms and enduring hospitable offers of ale and honey cakes.

  As she rose to her feet for the recital of the Gospel, she had another quick glance around the little church. Yes, Niall was there. She must see him also. And so was Fintan, the blacksmith, with his wife and children and the enormous figure of Balor beside them, balancing a wriggling small son of Fintan on his wide shoulders. She would have to ask Fintan about that second encounter with Ragnall on Michaelmas Day. After having spoken to Ardal, she would leave Turlough with him, she planned, while she did her business and then they could ride back down the flowery lanes at a leisurely pace that would give Brigid time to plan a meal fit for a king. Mara smiled to herself. Cumhal and Brigid were at the back of the church with the six scholars and Mara was abs
olutely certain that at the same time as suspects, motives and opportunities were racing through the mind of the mistress, the mind of the housekeeper was busily reviewing the contents of her larder and her storeroom. Yes, indeed, this weekly Mass was a great institution.

  ‘Ah, Brehon,’ said Ardal as she made her way towards the tall, red-haired figure of the O‘Lochlainn taoiseach as he stood on the steps outside the church.‘I was hoping to have a word with you.’ He walked away from the crowd, courteously ushering her in front of him, but at the same time making clear that he wanted privacy. ‘You remember I spoke to you on Michaelmas Day about the dispute between myself and the MacNamara over the streams on lands above Oughtmama?’ he said.

  Mara sighed. She had enough to do without presiding over Garrett and Ardal’s quarrel over the water that flowed down from the mountain. Here in the west of Ireland rain fell on two days out of every three in the year. Surely water wasn’t that important!

  ‘Well, I had a visit from the MacNamara two days ago. He wanted to know if, now that Aengus MacNamara is dead, I was interested in buying the mill at Oughtmama from him?’

  Mara’s eyes suddenly snapped wide open in astonishment. This was extraordinary. That mill had been in the hands of one of the MacNamara clan for hundreds of years. Why on earth should Garrett try to sell it? And what about Niall? She frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘Did you understand him correctly?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t the land above it, the land on the mountain, that he wanted — just so that there was no trouble about the streams?’

  Ardal shook his head. His blue eyes were anxious. He was a man who would guard his clan’s lands and property with his life, if necessary. This move of Garrett’s would be incomprehensible to him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it was the mill itself. He even named a price. He wanted to be paid in silver, not in milch cows or by any exchange of land. He just wanted silver.’

  ‘And what did you say?’ asked Mara cautiously. The silver would not be a problem to Ardal, she thought. Unlike most people on the Burren, unlike even the O’Connor, he would have silver. He traded his horses in Galway and exported them overseas and the merchants in Galway paid in silver.